I've Been Here Before
by GirlNextDoor
Summary: When Sam & Dean wake up in the 90s, ten years younger and under the parental watch of their estranged father, someone's got some serious 'splainin to do. But a strange boy at Sam's school could be the answer to their problems... or just the start of them.
1. It Musta Been One Crazy Night

The mildest breeze could have knocked Sam down. He felt lightheaded.

At first, when he hadn't recognized the motel they were staying in, it hadn't come as a huge shock. They'd both come in late last night, Dean taking the wheel while Sam slept awkwardly in the passenger seat. Neither of them had as much checked into the room as they had simply transferred sleeping quarters. In fact, he wasn't sure what he HAD been expecting upon opening his eyes.

All that being said, he sure knew what he WASN'T expecting.

Sam wasn't expecting to flip back the covers to see short, chubby legs in place of his long, gangly limbs. He wasn't expecting to jump out of bed in a panic, to draw himself up to a full height far inferior to his own. And when he turned and caught sight of his reflection in a mirror hanging by the closed bathroom door, he had been expecting to see his own, adult face. Not a pink, round face with scared, wide eyes.

"Oh God." Sam's voice trembled at an octave or two higher than he was used to, and he brought his shaking hands up to his face, which were smaller than normal, and not yet entirely void of all baby fat. "I'm... thirteen."

He spun away from the mirror in panic.

Sam's first thought was that it had to be a dream. Or a hallucination. Or maybe he was going crazy? It couldn't be real. It couldn't be _possible_. Out of all the things they dealt with, believed in, knew existed, surely SOME things should still be fantasy. And age-alteration, time-travel, whatever this was - whatever it _looked_ like - should NOT be on that list of things seen and believed.

His second thought was; '_Get a grip, Sam. Of course it's real. Has there been a single time in your life when you've thought 'this can't be real', and it actually wasn't?_' He knew the answer was no.

And then he could sense someone behind him.

"Sam?" That husky baritone was so familiar... he almost didn't want to believe. But the pull was far too strong to ignore, and he turned around - wide, scared eyes meeting those of a much younger, clean-shaven John Winchester.

Heart thumping, coming close even to tears, Sam battled the urge to run forward and cling to his father - not only the father they'd been searching for whom he hadn't seen in over two years, but also (so far) the only familiar face in this whole confusion. And there he was, standing casually by the bathroom door, newspaper in hand as if nothing was wrong. It made no sense, but God, it felt good.

"Sam?" John asked again, worry creeping into his voice and a frown furrowing his brow. "Is everything alright?"

Before he even realized it, Sam took a small step backwards. John's tone didn't betray that anything was out of the ordinary, and Sam's 'dad will know what to do' theory vanished in an instant. He felt like shouting at the man; '_Of course not! Do I look alright? I'm a goddamn teenager!_'

Fortunately, Sam still had twenty-three years of experience dealing with John under his belt - more than enough to know that a stunt like that could only end in disaster. If John thought his youngest son was supposed to be thirteen, then Sam would play along. For now. He nodded numbly, trying to remember what his attitude towards his father had been like in his early teens. "Everything's fine, Dad."

"Good." John replied simply, with a satisfied nod. He crossed the room to the small corner-kitchen and began busying himself trying to put together some makeshift form of breakfast. After the spring gave way in the toaster, the bread refusing to stay down for the fifth time, John uttered a groan of defeat.

"Dean!" He called, and Sam's head snapped around. _Dean was here?_ "Come make your brother some breakfast, will you?"

Sam's gaze followed John's. After a few moments of wild anticipation, Dean appeared in the doorway, bare feet padding across the carpet in slow, tentative steps. He eyed John cautiously for a few moments, before his attention snapped to Sam.

Sam stared back. He recognized the boy as Dean, but he was far from the man he'd eventually grow into. This Dean looked about sixteen or seventeen, with a far less muscular build than he would one day acquire, and longer hair, flecked with light blonde. He was shorter, but not by much, and his skin was lighter, with less scars, but more pimples.

"M-mornin'" Dean managed, before turning around quickly and wedging a spatula into the space above the toaster spring. It stayed down with a satisfying '_click_'.

The tension in the air was heavy, and Sam found himself wondering why toast took so damn long to cook. He chanced another glance at Dean, caught his eye and quickly looked away. But there was something in his expression which made him look far more mature than any seventeen year old should. And he looked worried, too. Sam wondered if Dean had woken up to the same shock he had, or if he, just like John, was merely part of the framework.

He knew it was selfish, but he really hoped it was the former option.

"Will one of you tell me what's going on with you boys?" John's voice cut through Sam's thoughts, pulling him back into the scenario he would have to accept - for now - as reality. Their father's scrutinizing glare flicked back and forth between the two of them, and when Sam looked up at Dean (up? _dammit_!), he saw his older brother looked just as nervous as he did.

"Nothing." They both replied, almost in unison.

John cocked a skeptical brow. "Why don't I believe that? And Dean, what the hell was all that yellin' about in the bathroom earlier?"

Dean froze, and in that moment Sam was SURE that this was _his_ Dean, his twenty-seven year old big brother, trying to invent a lie to cover what had surely been his shock at waking and seeing his seventeen-year-old face.

"Uh... zit?" Dean's excuse was weak, but John's attention was drawn away by the sound of toast popping. The toaster tab caught on the spatula Dean had stuck in there, and John yanked it out before it burned their breakfast.

But then Dean plucked the bread from the toaster and began buttering it - cutting off the crusts on Sam's piece - with such a natural ease that Sam was unsure all over again.

Accepting his toast with a muttered 'thanks', they sat down at the table strewn with research and stacked with old books, and ate in a tense silence. And that one thought kept nagging at Sam, as he stared at his chubby little hand clutching the crustless toast. That this shouldn't be possible.

**-----------------------**

Sammy didn't like the crust. That, he remembered.

Dean studied his little brother from the corner of his eye as he munched on the cooling toast. Sam was staring at his hands as if he couldn't work out whether they were his or not. He'd been acting nervous, too, but that wasn't to say he was necessarily in the same position Dean had found himself in that morning. Maybe he could simply sense that there was something wrong with his big brother.

And oh, there was something wrong alright.

The room he had woken up in had looked vaguely familiar - not that he remembered much at all of last night - but as soon as he dragged himself out of bed he had felt strange. Different, somehow, but familiar, in a nostalgic sort of way. Dean knew from experience that these feelings were never good, so he immediately went into the bathroom and shut the door. His intentions - ironically - had been to ease his mind in proving that there was nothing wrong.

Dean Winchester had gone to bed twenty-seven. And had woken up seventeen.

The yell had escaped him before he could stop it. The sight of his teenaged face staring back at him from the mirror was enough to send him into shock. And opening to door to find the father he'd been crisscrossing the country in search of didn't help much either.

But Sammy was here. And having Sammy meant he could concentrate - it meant he could keep a cool head when his brother was around. And whether it was his thirteen year old self or his twenty-three year old self, or anything in between that was looking up at him from those round, innocent eyes, Dean didn't really care. The ease he'd felt at slipping back into that caregiver role was almost enough to make him believe he really _was_ seventeen again.

_Almost_.

Dean didn't know what had gone wrong to cause this, but he knew he had to fix it.

"Boys," John's voice cut into his thoughts. "If you eat any slower, you're gonna be late for school.

"Oh HELL no!" It was out before Dean could stop himself. _School_? As if this day couldn't get any _worse_.

John's face clouded over. "Hell _yes_, young man. And watch you're mouth around Sammy."

"Dad, did you forget?" Sam piped up. "There's some sort of inter-schools teacher conference today. We all have the day off."

Dean closed his eyes. _Thank the Lord for Teacher-Only Day._ Considering the mental trauma he'd undergone just that morning, showing up at a school he barely remembered as an adult wearing a teenager's face, would be damn near enough to push him over the edge.

John regarded them both suspiciously for a moment. "Is that true, Dean?"

Dean frowned for a second. Couldn't the man just trust Sammy? "Yeah, it's true." He lied. "You signed the permission form and everything."

_Permission form._ Dean could hardly believe the words which were coming out of his mouth.

"It's a good thing, too." Dean continued cautiously. "'Cause I remember Sam saying he had a book report due which he hadn't finished." He turned to his little brother. "If you want, I could give you a hand with that."

Sam barely hesitated before he nodded and stood up. "Yeah... uh, thanks Dean."

They pushed back their chairs and vanished into the bedroom

"So, Sammy..." Dean chose his words carefully. If he really was the only one out of place in his own skin, he didn't want his little brother to think he was a complete freak. "Whaddya reckon I'll be doing on my twenty-first birthday? Drinking with friends? Picking up chicks?"

Sam's small face broke into a wide grin. "More like getting your ass kicked by a poltergeist and then being dragged back to a motel for D.I.Y stitches."

Dean collapsed onto the bed, heaving a huge sigh of relief. "It is you. Well, thank God _something's_ going right."

Sam took a seat on the other bed, feet barely even brushing the floor. "Yeah, well one good turn isn't gonna solve this for us, Dean."

"You were never this pissy at thirteen." Dean scowled, although he knew his little brother was right. "What happened to 'the glass is half full'?"

"Sorry, I must've left that optimism back in 2006." Sam replied with a sarcastic huff. "It just... bothers me. We weren't even on a hunt. We'd been on the road for almost a week with no leads, chasing nothing. The timing's random."

"For that time period, maybe." Dean replied, brows furrowed in deep thought.

Sam frowned, considering the possibility. "What, so... you think something happened here to bring us back?"

"Well, yeah." Dean shrugged. "There aren't many other options."

"Okay... but then what are we looking for? If something big enough to cause this happened, I think we'd remember it."

That was Sam... full of questions Dean didn't know how to answer.

"Yeah, well... if things messed up enough for us to pull a Back to the Future moment, the timeline's bound to be screwed." He suggested. "Maybe whatever it is hasn't happened yet."

Sam considered this with mild optimism. It made sense, in some whacked-out way. Honestly, nothing had made any sense so far today. He shifted on the bed, hating how small he felt, hating the way his high little voice made him feel like he had a frog in his throat, refusing to budge no matter how much he cleared it. Mildly jealous that Dean hadn't changed nearly as much. He sighed a small huff of defeat. "And Dad has no idea."

"Looks that way."

"How are we gonna tell him?" Sam shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts of possible scenarios that could follow that inevitable conversation. None of them were even a little appealing. "I mean, how the _hell_ do you drop a bombshell like -"

"We're not telling him anything, Sam." Dean jumped in, face set in determination. "He doesn't need that kind of shock, not on top of everything else he has to deal with."

Sam stared, hardly believing the words coming out of his brother's mouth. "Dean, don't you think he _might_ notice something's different? He's already asked once."

"Yeah, and we're gonna make sure that's the last time he does." The eldest insisted. This was one subject he wasn't going to budge on. "Look, Sammy, you said it yourself, the man's not exactly a wet paper bag when it comes to sharing. This is _not_ something he needs to know. End of discussion."

And that was when Sam discovered what was, possibly the one and only perk of his newly rediscovered youth. Bunching his eyebrows together, and drawing up his bottom lip, Sam turned the puppy dog eyes on full-force.

Dean recognized his plan immediately, and scowled. "That's not fair, Sammy. Just turn those things off; I'm not changing my mind."

A few more seconds. Sam let his chin tremble just a little.

Dean turned away, sure he would fall into the trap his brother was setting if he didn't. "I know that's still you in there, Sam. Those big doe-eyes aren't gonna work this time."

When he cautiously faced Sam again - squinting his eyes just in case - it seemed the man had given up, replacing the sad puppy expression with one of simple frustration. Dean sighed.

"We're doing him a favor here."

Sam gave a less-than-convinced nod. "It's not gonna be easy, keeping this from him."

"Sure it will." Dean smirked. "All you have to do is act moody all the time. Occasionally run into your room screaming things like 'Leave me alone! You're ruining my life!'"

"Oh yeah, real funny, Dean." Sam stood up, his full height bringing him only a few inches taller than Dean was sitting on the bed. "I was never that bad."

Dean chuckled as his tiny brother gave up trying to stretch himself to a taller height, and stomped away. "Don't forget to slam the door!"

"Bite me." Came Sam's reply, as he obliged with a loud '_bang_'. Seemed the twenty-three year old didn't respond well to teenage hormones.

Dean snorted and lay back on his elbows, observing the now quiet and empty room. When he'd woken up that morning, the full length mirror opposite his bed had given him a helluva fright. He'd stared dumbly for a few seconds, before rocketing out of bed and slamming the bathroom door behind him. Coming face-to-face with a version of himself he hadn't seen in ten years had been scary. And running a hand over his young face, covered in scratchy adolescent stubble and blemishes, examining the skinny physique he'd left behind so many years ago, he'd thought things couldn't get any stranger.

But seeing Sammy had been something else. He'd almost forgotten his Sasquatch of a brother had started out in such a small package. And he was _cute_. The whiny bitch was actually freakin' _adorable_, and Dean hated that Sam seemed to realize that and was more than willing to use it against him.

He rolled over, something on the nightstand catching his eye. He moved a few papers aside - which he assumed, by the untidy scrawl and doodles, was his long-estranged homework - to reveal a messy stack of old Playboys.

"Hello..." He couldn't suppress the grin which spread across his face as he picked up the magazines. With such limited living quarters, Dean remembered having to get rid of them when he started hunting on his own. There just wasn't the room or time for such simple... pleasures. He settled back against the pillows.

"Almost forgot I had these. Pamela, it's been a long time."


	2. Everything's Fine

The Cedarpoint Inn wasn't an overly small establishment. Aside from the neon sign out front, it even had a relatively homey feel to it. A quaint, one-story block on the edge of a small pine forest - and that pine smell... God. That was the first smell which hit Dean after he'd pulled their room door closed behind him to get some air. And in his opinion, pine-scented air was the best there was. Not the pansy, air-freshener kind. The real stuff, the good stuff... the kind which reminded him of a time he was apparently now re-living.

He scanned the parking lot, in search of the one thing he was sure would be the same. A familiar face was something he really needed to see, and Dean knew she wouldn't have changed a bit.

She wasn't hard to spot. Her long body glimmered seductively in the late morning sun, inviting Dean over to take a better look. Dean obliged. She looked better than he'd ever seen her, and he traced a finger lightly along her hood, noticing it came away completely dust-free. He grinned proudly.

"That's my girl." His love for the classic Chevy blinded any embarrassment he might have felt from talking to a car. "Thank God you're here."

He reached into his back pocket, needing to feel the comfort of her keys in his hand, but there was nothing.

"If you're thinking of taking her out for a spin, I'm sorry Dean, but you've got a few more years to wait." John's voice behind him was accompanied by the metallic jangling of what could only be the keys in question. Dean groaned, once again reminded that he was now supposed to be a reckless teenager who couldn't be trusted behind the wheel. One whom had probably only acquired a driver's license less than a year ago.

"Oh, right. Sorry."

John fixed him with a hard stare, as if contemplating a difficult math problem. "Dean, I wanted to ask you again about what's going on with you and your brother. You've both been on edge all morning, and you boys are really starting to worry me." His mouth twitched, the John Winchester patented warning for impending humor. "So how about you let me in on whatever's bothering you before I spike your coffee with holy water?"

Crap. There it was again. That parental concern Dean couldn't even begin to compete with. He offered a small smile to cover the worry he was feeling as he searched his brain for a convincing excuse. "Dad, it's... nothing. Really. Nothing you need to be concerned about. Just school stuff."

John arched an eyebrow. He wasn't buying it. "I know my boys better than anyone. And something's not right."

Dean hesitated. John was clearly worried - he could obviously sense something was off. Whether he could tell exactly _how_ off it was, Dean didn't know. He could almost hear Sam's voice in his ears; '_It's not gonna be easy, keeping this from him_'. He hated lying to his father, especially about something as huge as what they were going through. But he knew he couldn't tell him. He couldn't lay that kind of grief on the man. Not yet. Not unless he absolutely had to. They'd sort it out, all would be right with the world and John would be none the wiser.

"Trust me on this one. Please."

John disregarded Dean's plea with a small shake of his head, all joking aside now. He looked away, seemingly at nothing, maybe at something only he could see. "You know, I raised you and your brother to be independent, to just... suck it up when things get too much. I..." His eyes locked back into Dean's. "I hope that wasn't a mistake. If anything serious was going on, with you or Sam... you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

_Oh God. Why did this have to be so hard?_ Dean swallowed. "Yes sir."

"Good boy." John clapped Dean on the shoulder, the classic fatherly gesture of acceptance and satisfaction. This one was different, though. Forced. He'd leave the matter alone, for now. But Dean knew John was far from satisfied. He still sensed something. "Come on in, would you? I'm cleaning the blades and could sure use another pair of hands."

Dean nodded. "Yeah okay, in a minute."

The door closed behind him, signaling John's departure. Dean let out a slow, shuddery breath, gathering his bearings. The pine air helped. So did the familiar touch of his 1967 beauty. If he could convince himself everything was fine, maybe he could convince his father, too. In a crazy time like this, Dean really needed to believe everything was fine. He wasn't a gullible man, but nor was he a weak persuader. He grasped the door handle of room number twelve, just a regular seventeen-year-old going to help his father clean out the family arsenal. And everything's fine.

No, really.

_Everything's fine._

**-----------------------**

For the most part, Sam's first morning as a rediscovered thirteen-year-old had gone without much disaster. After stomping out of the bedroom following the argument with Dean, he'd immediately felt like an idiot. And his brother was probably laughing his ass off at the fact that Sam was acting so much like a kid. He'd forgotten how pink his face used to turn when he was embarrassed.

Sam didn't remember not being allowed to drink coffee in his early teens, but that revelation - supplied kindly by the firm hand of John Winchester tugging the cup out of his small grip - had left him even grouchier. Pushing what was left of his ego to the side, Sam had tucked into a bowl of unbranded breakfast flakes which had turned the milk pink almost on contact. Being a kid again, Sam figured, gave him the right to eat sugary cereals by the truckload - although it did make him wonder on more than one occasion how the hell he'd managed to turn out so healthy.

Pissed off at his brother and full of artificial colors, Sam was beginning to feel like he really was thirteen again. That was, until he'd opened his duffel bag to inspect the contents.

He wasn't sure why he'd been expecting to see his usual collection of long-legged jeans and unobtrusive button-downs, but as soon as he pulled out the first shockingly yellow t-shirt, the illusion of childhood innocence crashed around him in an instant.

Sam eyed the rest of his wardrobe with high disapproval. Some of the items he remembered, some of them he swore Dean must have planted in there as a practical joke. Hibiscus-printed Hawaiian shorts, for God's sake! What had be been thinking?

Finally, Sam hoped he'd put together the most respectable outfit possible. There was little humor in this whole situation they'd been unceremoniously shoved into, but it was undoubtedly there, and as Sam surveyed himself in the mirror, it hit him full-force. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, although he denied himself the childish giggle which was building up behind his lips. Last night when he'd been separating the clean clothes from the dirty ones, and trying to trace the most direct route to the Laundromat he would surely have to visit in the morning, Sam's biggest concern was that he might have to borrow one of Dean's shirts if he was to make the laundry run. In hindsight, an ill-fitting Zeppelin t-shirt would have been far preferable to the Thundercats one he now sported.

God help Dean if he even _sniggered_.

A thought struck Sam as he caught a glimpse of a camo-printed backpack resting against the bed he'd woken up in. This room, this whole _life_ was like a perfectly preserved time capsule. He made his way over to the bag and unzipped it carefully, the strong smell of two-day-old peanut butter and jelly sandwiches hitting him like a tidal wave. Aside from the crime against air-freshener, Sam's schoolbag held mainly textbooks, notebooks an loose notes. He pulled out a blue notebook which had gone soggy at one corner. Grimacing, Sam flipped the front cover open to reveal the first page, covered in awful doodles. He rolled his eyes, but smiled.

The next few pages were much of the same, one even featuring a cross note in the margin written in red by his teacher; '_No more drawings! Keep your book neat and tidy!_' Sam guffawed and turned the page.

'_In the summer holidays I went to visit my Aunty May with my Dad and my brother. She has a lodge by the lake and we stayed with her for Christmas.'_

Sam frowned, trying to remember if he'd written those words or not. It was the classic 'What I did in the holidays' essay all junior high school students were expected to write upon returning after the Christmas break. Sam remembered writing several, but he had never heard of an Aunty May. As for extended family went, Sam was pretty much clueless all round.

**-----------------------**

Dean sauntered into the bedroom, having managed to avoid his brother all morning. It was just too strange, looking at him the way he was, but if he hid from him any longer it would be bordering on plain mean. Better to focus his attention on the sliver of humor in the situation.

And that humor was staring him in the face right now.

"Thundercats, HO!" Dean raised a triumphant fist in mock approval, and Sammy just rolled his eyes.

_No,_ he corrected himself, for the first time ever being the one voicing the protests instead of his little brother. _Not Sammy. This is Sam._

"Shut up, Dean. It's the only thing I have which isn't fluorescent or printed with hibiscus flowers." Alright, maybe a slight exaggeration.

"Yeah, because printed with crime-fighting cats from space is so much better." Dean hooted with laughter.

Sam scowled, mostly at the fact that Dean's outfit presented nothing for him to retaliate with. His brother's fashion sense hadn't changed much in the ten years since they were teenagers. Dean's current attire was far, _far_ less embarrassing than what Sam would have to wear until they got this sorted out - a short-sleeved plaid shirt with a rolled-up long-sleeved underneath and tattered jeans. The only things missing were his 'accessories': '_It's man jewelry,_' Dean would constantly insist, referring to the ring and several bracelets he owned, as well as that damn amulet that always gave Sam the creeps looking at it up close. '_That makes it okay._'

Instead, Sam changed the subject, directing his attention back to his essay. "Hey, Dean, do we have an Aunty May?"

"You mean that sweet old woman who lives in that cottage by the lake? The one we stayed with every summer?"

Sam nodded, and Dean flopped onto the bed. "Nope, she's not real."

Sam frowned, substantially confused now. "What?"

"Dad made her up. The man can be damn creative when called on. Named each of her budgies and everything. You really don't remember?" Sam shook his head, and Dean explained. "She was a cover story. We were meant to use it when anyone asked us how we spent our holidays." He shrugged, tugging a loose thread on the duvet cover. "I guess 'staying with Aunty May' is more socially acceptable than 'kicking demon ass'."

Sam laughed, the memory beginning to come back to him. "I guess so."

"Hey, Sam..." Dean twisted around to check the door was closed properly, and lowered his voice. "Has Dad said anything else to you this morning?"

"Uh..." Sam thought for a moment. "Yeah, he said 'none of that for you, young man' when I was trying to drink coffee, then he told me to brush my teeth and asked if I'd finished my book report." The words suddenly struck Sam as hilarious coming from a twenty-three year old, and he fell back on his bed, smirking and suppressing his laughter. "It's weird to have him back, huh? Even though technically he hasn't left yet."

Dean nodded uneasily. "Yeah. Yeah, it is." _It's fine, though._

_Just fine._


	3. Old Beginnings

Sam didn't want to say it, but the frown on his brother's face made him look more familiar.

Sure, they'd managed to escape school for one day - time enough to get their head around things, at least - but they were gonna have to face it sooner or later. If that's what was needed to keep John in the dark, and hopefully figure their situation out with as little grief as possible, then they would - mildly willingly - conform to a schoolboy stance.

'_Just think of it as going undercover on a job._' Dean had said, trying to cheer Sam up about the prospect. '_We have the best disguises ever, and they didn't cost a thing._'

Sam had nodded weakly, not feeling much happier but appreciating his brother's efforts, as he'd turned to face his 'disguise' in the mirror.

For the moment, playing along would be their top priority - hopefully, with that in mind, they'd get through the day with the least emotional trauma possible.

Then, find the source of this weird situation and vanquish the bejeezus out of it.

Sam watched as Dean scooped up a handful of gunk from a pot labeled 'STYLING WAX - FIRM CONTROL' and started twisting it through the ends of his longer-than-normal hair. Sam had been ready and waiting for almost twenty minutes - even with the dilemma of trying to remember what things he'd need to take with him. Dean, however, seemed to think he could sleep late, then take his own sweet time in the bathroom fawning over his appearance. He hadn't done anything like that since... well, since they were teenagers.

As much as Sam hated the position they'd been put in, he would NOT be late for his first day of school in five years. He wanted to arrive a little early, in fact. He'd need the time to find his feet.

"Dean!" Sam complained, stomping into the bathroom. "What the hell is taking so long?"

"Relax, Sam." Dean grumbled, leaning in towards his reflection to inspect a particularly nasty spot on his chin. "Just gotta put my shoes on."

Sam's eyes swept over his brother's disheveled form, clad in boxer shorts and a musty-smelling t-shirt, half-empty coffee cup sitting by his right hand. The floor of the shower was completely dry.

"You have a loose definition of 'shoes'."

Dean shrugged, and continued prodding at his face and arranging his hair. Sam fumed, chancing a quick glance at his watch - it was already far later than he'd wanted to leave.

"Dean, what the hell has gotten into you?" Sam stepped closer and lowered his voice so John wouldn't overhear. "You do realize you're not _actually_ seventeen, right?"

"Just trying to look the part, Sammy." Was Dean's flippant response as he finally tore his eyes away from his apparently adequate appearance and returned to the bedroom to choose an outfit. Sam huffed and stalked into the kitchen, plonking himself down on a chair with more force than was probably necessary.

"It's SAM!" He finally yelled into the other room, cheeks flushed bright red from frustration.

The newspaper hovering, open, in front of Sam lowered one corner to reveal his father's sleepy face. "Tell your brother to get a move on, would you?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I've tried, believe me. But it's like asking a rooster if they could please keep the noise down."

John gave him a strange look, and Sam mentally kicked himself. _Thirteen, dammit, you're meant to be thirteen! What the Hell kind of kid makes metaphorical comparisons?_

"Or, y'know... something." He amended.

Another ten or fifteen minutes, and Dean was in the doorway, looking smug and wearing God-knows what. John scooped up his keys, muttering 'finally', and Sam practically catapulted out of his seat.

Their father was out the door and heading for the car before Dean decided he had one more thing to do, and began unrolling a balled-up pair of socks. Sam muttered a word he wasn't sure he was supposed to know at such a young age, and collapsed back into the chair again, rubbing his temple, a vein throbbing steadily beneath his fingers.

He wondered how much surgery it would take to correct a Dean-induced hernia.

"Dean, think you could pick up the pace a little? I'm growing a beard over here."

There was that cocky Dean Winchester smile again. "Aw, no you're not Sammy. Not for a few more years, anyway." He stood, now fully shoed, and pinched Sam's cheek like some kind of deprived, overzealous aunt. Sam hated that his cheeks were chubby enough to have the desired effect.

He slapped Dean's hand away in annoyance. "Dude! Would you quit treating me like I'm thirteen years old?" Sam eyed his brother for a moment, taking in the 'creatively' spiked hair, messy stubble and obscure band t-shirt. For a twenty-seven year old, he'd managed to present himself as a teenager scarily well. But, even so... "You look like an idiot, by the way."

Dean straightened his t-shirt, looking upset that his hard work was not being appreciated. "Oh yeah? Those were some pretty nice Buzz Lightyear pajamas you wore to bed last night."

Sam struggled for a comeback, but even he had to admit, Dean had him pretty good on that one. Even though they had been the only flannel pajamas in his duffel. And it had been a cold night. He rolled his eyes. "Can we just try to get through this with as much dignity as possible? Cause, I mean... it's bad enough looking like kids..."

He left the accusation of childishness hanging. Dean scowled.

"Fine. Let's just get this over with." He smirked down at Sam, loving the reversed height difference. "To infinity and beyond, right?"

-----------------------

Sam's school was only about half a mile from Dean's, but he felt like he was several states away from his brother. And, thanks to the good ole time warp or whatever this was, he didn't even have a cell phone to keep in touch. Sam felt alone, nervous and horribly out of place.

As soon as he stepped through the front gate, thee young girls scampered past, screeching. One of them, trailing a skipping rope, paused and gave Sam an appreciative once-over, before running after her friends in a fit of giggles.

Oh yeah, this wasn't weird at all. He'd just been checked out by a twelve year old... Dean would have a friggin' field day.

Grumbling, flushed pink and never having felt more awkward, Sam took small, tentative steps towards the building. Finding his locker would be about as easy as raising the dead.

Alright, maybe not _that_ easy.

"SAM!" His head snapped around on instinct, as his eyes searched for the speaker, finally settling on a round-ish boy waving enthusiastically from a picnic table. He barely remembered any friends he's made in his childhood, having moved around so much, and this kid was no exception. Still, and unfamiliar friend was better than no friend at all, and he changed course, heading for the overenthusiastic teen.

"Sam!" The kid cried again as he approached, looking monumentally pleased to see him. Sam wondered how he could forget such an odd character. "You're here! Where'd you go yesterday? Were you sick? Are you alright?"

The boy's questions were fired at him like they were coming from a machine gun, the desperation and dependence showing in his voice so strongly that Sam paused, taken aback. Judging by the fact that this kid had been sitting alone until Sam showed up, he was probably his only friend. Suddenly, the relief at seeing a friendly face turned to something on the other end of the scale.

"No, I wasn't sick. Just a... family crisis."

The kid's eyes got huge behind his thick glasses. "What sort of crisis?" He sucked in a panicked gulp of air. "You're not moving, are you?"

He looked just about ready to have an asthma attack and sure enough, out came the inhaler. One puff. Two puffs. Sam waited patiently for him to finish.

"No. Not for a while."

As the boy's breathing slowed, he nodded weakly. "Okay."

Sam slid onto the bench opposite his 'friend', regarding him with a mixture on caution and sympathy. As much as it pained him to be here, that internal voice nagged at him; '_you have a job to do. You and Dean were brought back here for a reason. And it doesn't help that neither of you have a clue in Hell what that reason is_.' Sam took a moment to prepare his initial plan of attack.

"So, uh... it might be just me, but I noticed a lot of people 'round here were acting kinda weird." Sam lied, doing his best to sound like a young teen. "Has something happened that I missed?"

The round boy thought hard for a few moments, then shook his head. "Nope, I don't think so."

Sam sighed and leaned back. That would have been way too easy, anyway. He glanced around the playground, feeling ridiculous amid the swings and see-saws... far too old to be here. He wondered how Dean was doing. At least his brother was at a high school - there'd be no jump ropes, hula-hoops or hopscotch for him to contend with.

"Hey Sam, wanna play two-square?" The kid asked, as if reading his mind. Sam smiled uncomfortably. He already felt silly enough, without playing games with a thirteen year old.

"Maybe later, okay?" Sam fumbled with his shortened limbs as he stood up. "I'm gonna go take a walk..."

"I'll come with you!" The kid rocketed off the bench, practically trembling. "Where are we going?"

"To the bathroom!" Sam snapped, a little more harshly than he'd intended. He breathed out, trying to keep his cool. "Look, please, just stay here, okay?"

The kid drooped, sinking back into his seat like a deflated balloon. "Okay." He said, with such dejected hurt and disappointment in his voice that Sam immediately felt bad.

"Sorry." He offered a half-smile. "I'll see you in class, okay?"

Another small nod from the boy, and Sam turned, making a beeline for any place that wasn't there at that picnic table.

-----------------------

"Hey, Dean."

The young blonde's sugary sweet tone stalled Dean as he breezed past, and he met her coy smile with a winning grin.

"Mornin'"

She giggled, and spun back to her open locker.

Dean's back-to-school experience had so far been much of the same - girls leaning against lockers and hanging over rails just to pout cherry-colored lips and bat thick, black eyelashes at him. In all honesty, he'd been a little surprised by that - he didn't remember being such a ladies man in high school... that sort of thing had come later in life, as far as he was concerned. Even so, the attention was by no means unwanted, and he returned each giggle and wolf-whistle with a smile that promptly turned their legs to jelly.

Oh yeah. He still had it.

He'd finally located his locker - mostly identifiable by the numerous dents and scratches it had accumulated over his period of usage - but remembering the combination was turning out to be a real bitch. He'd tried his birthday, Sam's, both their parents', but the lock wouldn't budge. He cursed whatever had possessed him to attach a combination lock - if it had been a regular padlock he would have been able to pick it with no trouble at all.

The second - and most difficult - challenge of the day would be his classes. Sure, he had a ten-year advantage over the rest of his 'classmates', but Dean was more streetsmart than booksmart. Algebra, all that crappy, useless knowledge that would end up drifting around in his brain like tumbleweed was entirely superfluous the way he was heading. Dean liked to keep himself on a strictly need-to-know basis... and things like math and chemistry - in his universe - definitely didn't make the grade.

Still, it had been he who insisted on keeping John in the dark - a decision he was now beginning to heavily regret - and that meant attending classes, just like every other seventeen year old in this hellish place.

Even so, Dean was rapidly finding out that High School wasn't without it's... perks.

A passing redhead flashed a set of pearly whites - whilst flashing far more than just teeth down below.

_She's too young for you she's too young for you, dammit, she's..._

_Totally getting laid._


	4. Lessons Learned

"Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH... you should all have finished reading your novels by now. Can anyone describe the main character to me?"

A small hand shot up with marveled enthusiasm. Mrs. Wynter sighed and shook her head a little. The boy attached to that repeatedly rising hand had always been the most driven student in her eighth-grade english class, but today, his efforts were nearing the point of ridicule. Every single question she'd asked had been responded to by him... with an answer far past his years. At first, she'd been awed - she could sleep easy knowing at least ONE of her students was doing their homework. But after the sixth or seventh time, and two gold stars later, she was beginning to get a little tired of his know-it-all attitude.

No one else had raised their hand to answer this question. No one except him. The rest had given up trying.

"...yes, Mr. Winchester?"

The young boy cleared his throat. "It would be difficult to determine a single main character, due to the constant flashback used in the story. Although, the title lends itself to the idea of Mrs. Frisby being the main character-"

"And you would describe her as...?"

"Sensitive, intelligent female with a cynical sense of humor."

Mrs. Wynter resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Very good, Sam."

-----------------------

Sam knew his 'classmates' - including his teacher - were beginning to get frustrated with him. His conscience had, at first, warned him against showing off. He had an unfair advantage, after all. The extra ten years hidden inside the small package he currently occupied was the only thing allowing him to give a college-level analysis to eighth-grade questions. But boy, if this situation didn't suck more than a brand new Electrolux, and Sam was sure as Hell gonna reap the benefits.

The feeling of sitting at a desk and raising his hand to speak was slowly becoming less strange to him. It had taken almost an entire school day, and he still felt like an adult masquerading in a child's setting, but at least he didn't feel _completely_ ridiculous anymore. And with his (yes, alright, 'unfair') advantage, Sam was even beginning to enjoy himself.

That's not to say he wasn't also immensely pleased that it was the last period of the day.

The round boy from that morning - Warren, it turned out his name was - twisted around in his seat and gave Sam a thumbs-up. Sam smiled back tightly, not quite able to bring himself to return the gesture. He'd been harassing him all day, and Sam couldn't understand how - even at the tender age of thirteen - he'd been able to stand it.

"Wanna come to my house after school?" Warren whispered, less than stealthy, but the teacher ignored him. "We can play cowboys - my mom finally said I'm allowed!"

Sam could almost hear Dean's voice echoing in his head; _What a dweeb_. He made sure he didn't repeat his thoughts out loud, instead trying his best to look disappointed. "Sorry, Warren, I can't."

"Why not?"

"...I have a doctor's appointment."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he cringed, knowing it was the wrong thing to say. And as if taking a cue, Warren looked panicked. "What's wrong? Are you sick? Sam, you said you weren't-"

"No! Warren, I'm fine!" Sam glanced furtively up at Mrs. Wynter, who was doing her best to teach the rest of the class over Warren's growing volume. "It's just a check-up!"

"Oh. Alright, then."

Ten more minutes later, and having just earned his third gold star of the lesson, the final bell rang mercifully. Sam bolted.

-----------------------

The sight of the '67 Chevy waiting outside the school gates was possibly the most comforting thing Sam had seen in his entire life. He jogged towards it, not caring how childish it made him look, and slid into the back seat.

"Sammy." Dean was riding shotgun. "How was school?"

To John, it would have appeared a simple, friendly enquiry, but Sam knew it held much more stock than just small talk. He considered an answer which wouldn't give anything away to John, sampling and rejecting each one which came into his head.

"...interesting." Sam finally settled on. "How about you?"

"Oh, it was good." Dean grinned, and that grin worried Sam just a little. "Learned a _lot_."

-----------------------

In almost perfect unison, the two brothers ambled into the twin bedroom, threw their bags on the floor and collapsed onto their beds. Somehow, attending school managed to be far more draining than stalking through undergrowth on the trail of a Wendigo.

John had stayed outside, probably giving the impala a full pedicure, and Dean took the opportunity to speak freely in the almost-empty motel room.

"Let's be honest now. How did you really deal today?"

Sam grumbled. "Well, I have the most annoying "BFF" in history."

"BFF?"

"'Best Friend Forever', according to Warren." Sam said, rolling his eyes. "But at least the classes were easy."

Dean snorted, imagining his brother beaming with pride as he showed-up a bunch of children with his supreme knowledge. "Oh yeah, you must have had a friggin' jamboree playing '_Are you smarter than a 5th Grader?_'."

Sam rolled his eyes again. Dean had him pegged pretty well, but he sure wouldn't let him know it. "Yeah? Well how'd you do?"

Dean tilted his head over to look at Sam "Well... I still can't remember my locker combo. And I found out that I know even less about Ancient History than I did ten years ago. Oh, but I met someone... what was her name... Louise Mc-Something."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded, looking slightly pleased with himself. "Nice girl. Real flexible."

Sam squeezed his eyes closed and planted a hand on his face. "Oh God, Dean, what did you do?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Took her roughly in the barn."

Sam's stomach churned, nauseated, and for a moment he violently wished he hadn't had a second helping of fish sticks with lunch. "Please tell me you're joking."

Dean paused, grinning, and for a moment it seemed as if he really was joking. "Yeah, you're right. It wasn't so much a barn as it was a lean-to. Kind of like a poorly-constructed shed... I don't really know the difference."

He wasn't joking. Crap. And even despite the fact that Sam would rather chew and swallow tinfoil than hear about his brother's sexual endeavors, there was also a more serious issue here. One that Dean didn't seem to be getting.

"Dean, you can't just sleep around, not while we're in this mess!" Sam scowled, but Dean's face remained blank. "Don't you get it? You could have _changed_ the _future_. What if we get back to our time and this girl has your kids?"

Dean almost looked offended. "Hey, the man always comes prepared."

"That's not the point."

"Then what _is_?"

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. "You're the movie buff! Why don't you tell _me_ what can happen when people get stuck in a previous decade and start messing with the timeline?"

"Like in 'The Butterfly Effect'?" Dean looked a little concerned. Sam was glad. Looked like what he was saying was finally getting through.

"Sure." To be honest, Sam _wasn't_ really sure... he didn't watch nearly as much television as his brother did. But, he'd take his word for it. "Just, do me a favor, okay? Don't do anything... you would normally do."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I'm serious, Dean! If we're not careful -"

The sound of the motel room door slamming shut hushed Sam at once. Not wanting to increase John's already-heightened suspicion, he continued speaking at once with the first thing that popped into his head.

"-and then my English teacher gave us all candy bars because we finished reading our books before the deadline."

Sam cringed. _Where had that come from?_

Dean stifled a hoot of laughter. "Wow Sammy, that's... great." He quickly recovered when their father stuck his head in the door.

"I'm going out tonight." John announced, speaking more to Dean than Sam. "Haunting up on Taylor's Hill. Salt 'n Burn should take the sucker down, but I won't be back 'til near dawn, so Dean you'll have to fix your brother some dinner."

"Yes, sir." Dean replied automatically. Sam had other ideas.

"Dad, we can come with you!" Getting back into a job could be just what he needed to feel a little more like himself again.

John looked perplexed. "_You_ want to come hunting?"

At the last moment, Sam had realized how uncharacteristic that enthusiasm for a job had been. The resulting cringe had induced everything but a face-palm.

"Oh, yeah... um, I just didn't really feel like staying in the room tonight."

John sighed. "I'm glad you're finally taking an interest, Sam, but I'm sorry, you boys'll have to sit this one out. Even a simple haunting like this can get nasty. Besides, you have school in the morning."

Sam looked disappointed, and John mirrored his expression. "I'm sorry, Sam. Maybe in a couple more years."

He closed the door behind him.

-----------------------

The cupboards were empty, save for a packet of milk powder, pepper and mayonnaise. _Dad sure knows how to stock up_, Dean thought sarcastically. Sure, half past five in the evening was a little early for dinner, but it looked like he'd need the extra time anyway. These provisions were ridiculous.

"What would MacGyver do?" Dean muttered under his breath, slamming the cupboard door closed.

"What?" Sam looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

"How do you like your nothin'?" Dean asked. "I can do fried or poached."

Sam offered a small smile. "Dean, you know you don't actually have to prepare my meals, right?"

"I dunno... you think you can reach the high shelves?" Dean teased.

For the thousandth time, Sam silently mourned his lost height. On the outside, though, he just rolled his eyes. "I knew it. You're loving this, aren't you?"

"Dude, you're_tiny_!" Dean walked over and ruffled Sam's hair jokingly. "What's not to love?" He paused, the look on his face suggesting a particularly unpleasant memory. "Okay, apart from having to call shotgun in my own friggin' car."

Sam grinned as Dean checked the fridge. A twelve-pack and some cheese. Great. Dean was half-tempted to just go out and buy them burgers, but that would mean leaving Sam alone. Yes, Sam was an adult, but John didn't know that. And if he found out that Dean had gone out and left Sammy by himself... he wasn't sure if he could endure that silent, steely anger a second time.

Especially if something happened.

"I'm serious, Dean. We'll take turns, just like we always do. You don't need to_feel_ responsible for me just because Dad thinks you are."

"Aw, I dunno. I kinda like being the big brother again." Dean confessed.

"You're uh, always gonna be the big brother, Dean." A smirk tugged at the corner of Sam's mouth.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Come on Sam, you know what I mean. It's nice to be kind of... responsible again." He glanced at Sam, wondering how far he should take this conversation. "I always try to look out for you as best I can, but knowing you can look after yourself... it's made the job kind of redundant. I dunno... with Dad treating us like kids, getting me to make your meals and all, it's kind of a nice reminder."

Sam arched an eyebrow, although he suspected Dean wouldn't go any further into what he meant. Probably felt he'd gone too far anyway. "...meaning?"

Dean grinned. "Means I'm making your damn dinner." He turned back to the fridge, opening it again and looking skeptically at the contents. "Now, how does beer and mayonnaise with a side of grated cheese sound?"

"Uh..." Sam searched for a suitable comparison. "Better than getting shot in the face, I guess."

Dean gave a solid nod. It appeared he wasn't joking. "Good."


	5. Knockout

Dean _loved_ high school!

The _food_ these kids get is just insane... Dean would never poorly judge cafeteria food again. No wonder many of the students in the bustling lunch-room looked like a kid-and-a-half, but Dean would gladly pack on a few pounds to be able to eat like _this_ every day.

Wacky Wings Wednesday had been great, but Hamburger Thursday was something else entirely. Not to mention he thought the last time he'd sipped milk out of a box had been fifth grade. Dean could hardly wait for Fish-stick Friday. He eyed his meal with great anticipation as he scanned the tables for somewhere to sit.

Something Dean recalled after being back at school a couple days was that he didn't have any close friends, but instead seemed to simply be on good terms with pretty much everyone - _especially_ the female population of the school. He wasn't sure if that made things easier or harder... all he knew was that he sure wasn't complaining. Well, aside from the whole being-stuck-in-his-teenaged-body aspect of it.

Dean spied an empty seat opposite a young brunette he'd been flirting with earlier and made a beeline for it. This girl was one of his favorites. Definitely in his top ten.

She looked up and smiled shyly. "Dean! Hi."

Dean grinned back as he took the empty seat opposite her. "Afternoon."

The girl giggled, as if Dean's simple greeting was the wittiest thing she'd ever heard. She played with a stray lock of hair and chewed on her lower lip while watching him like he was the best item on the menu. Dean, meanwhile, was more intent on his burger... quite _literally_ the best item on the menu.

"So Dean..." She began in a sugary-sweet voice which distracted Dean from the tendrils of aroma wafting up from the plastic cafeteria tray. But only for a second. "Are you gonna try out for the swim team?"

"Nuh-uh." Dean replied through an unnecessarily large mouthful. The brunette wrinkled her nose a little, but quickly regained her composure.

"Are you sure?" She leaned forward on her tiny elbows. "...'cause I think you'd look super cute in those little swimming trunks."

_...DAMN, this burger was good!_

But then a shadow fell across the table, and there was a voice by Dean's right ear.

"Buddy, you're in my seat."

Dean looked up, squinting against the harsh contrast of the bright cafeteria lights and the dark silhouette of the teen looming over him.

"...Wha?"

"I _said_, your ass is in my seat, jerkoff." The contrast was fading, and the kid's face was becoming visible as Dean's eyes adjusted. He looked pissed. "Move it or I'll move it for you."

Dean quirked an eyebrow, unfazed, and set his burger down. "What's your name, stranger?" He asked, imitating a cowboy's lazy southern drawl.

The tall kid, caught off-guard by Dean's calm, looked confused for a moment. "Rick... why?"

"Rick, huh?" Dean ignored the question, and instead began studying the graffiti etched into the red plastic seat. "Well, I see a 'Hannah' and a 'Bruce'... twelve-year-old chewing gum... but uh, sorry. No 'Rick'." He smirked up at the kid. "Guess this isn't your seat after all."

Rick snarled and dragged Dean to his feet by his t-shirt, their faces inches apart.

"Rick, please!" The brunette girl cried, still seated as if she wanted to help but had no idea what to do. "Dean was here first... we were just talking, I promise!"

"Shut it, Sandra." He snapped, before hauling Dean even closer and speaking quietly. Dean assumed it was meant to make him sound 'dangerous'. "You think you're a comedian, huh?"

Dean hung in the tall kid's knotted hold, making no attempt - for now - to fight back. His lips pulled into a tongue-in-cheek smirk. "Absolutely." He cocked his head back. "Your girlfriend thinks so, too."

That was it. Rick seemed the kind of guy that wasn't too hard to push too far... and by the look on his face, Dean had done it. In one swift movement, the taller guy released his hold on Dean, reared back with his fist and took a hard swing right at Dean's head.

Amateur.

Dean ducked under the blow, just like he'd been taught when he was no more than ten years old. He sprung up again, spinning to the left to avoid Rick's uppercut.

"Wow, you sure aren't an 'aim to please' kinda guy, are ya?" Dean snarked, merely enjoying himself. He nodded towards Sandra. "No wonder she's bored with you."

By now, everyone in the cafeteria was intent on this piece of lunchtime entertainment. Some students had come closer and were egging the two on. Others simply observing as the fight went on. Even the lunch ladies were peering over the cauldrons of soup or glop or whatever the juniors were eating, with an expression of mild interest.

"_Kick his ass!_" Someone screamed from the back, but Dean wasn't sure if it was directed at him or Rick.

The tall kid swung again, and Dean ducked again. This was beginning to get boring. Rick clearly needed to restock his repertoire. Intent on ending the brawl, Dean snapped up for the last time and planted a straight, sharp punch in the center of Rick's face. His head snapped back with the force, and he toppled, blood gushing from his nose.

Dean straightened and rubbed his reddened knuckles absently, watching one of the lunch ladies scurry off, probably to bring back a teacher to 'properly punish the two rascally lads'. Rick's blood was pouring down the side of his face and even beginning to stain the shoulder of his shirt. Funny, Mr. Tough-ass wasn't too hard to knock out.

"Soak in it, bitch." Dean spat, just as a man with thinning hair in a suit and tie became visible striding angrily down the hallway.

-----------------------

Some things were just unfair, and Sam always seemed to get the brunt of them. Like seeing the world from a viewpoint over a foot lower than he was used to wasn't bad enough, he also had to have the world's craziest 'bestest best buddy'. Sam didn't usually like to think badly of people unless they really deserved it, but Warren... oh jeez. He also had discovered over the past two days of schoolboy nostalgia that, when Dean wasn't there to overshadow him with his 'charming' wit and up-for-anything attitude, Sam could hold his own pretty well in the scoring chicks department.

Too bad those chicks so far had all been twelve-year-old girls.

He just can't catch a break.

And on top of everything else, Sam had been waiting 15 minutes out front for John to pick him up after school, and there'd been no sign of the Chevy. The playground was empty now, and the parking lot was almost clear too. Despite the annoyance kindled by the fact that John had possibly forgotten about him, Sam found himself enjoying the first real moment to himself since everything happened.

Thank God Warren took the bus.

Sam had come to terms with whatever it was that had happened, accepted it, but he still didn't really understand the situation, nor was he yet comfortable in his new body. Old body. Whatever.

Nothing had ever dented his dignity to such an extreme. Just the thought that Dean would have been merely strolling down high school hallways or leaning against buildings during lunch break (while Sam was being coerced into trading cards and running around the jungle gym) drove him crazy.

And why the hell did he have to be such a late bloomer?

He tightened his pudgy fist around his bag strap and glanced at his watch as another twinge of discomfort struck him. Nature had been calling persistently for the twenty minutes he'd been waiting here, and it wouldn't damn well hang up. Chances were, if he did duck inside the building to find a bathroom, even for two minutes, John would show up the second he disappeared. Although, look at it the other way, and he could continue to wait - a scenario which could only end in embarrassment and a fresh set of pants.

Sending a quick glance down the road for the familiar black classic, Sam picked up his bag and walked away from the front gate towards tall school steps in search of a bathroom.

Sam had just endured his second day at school as a well-disguised twenty-three year old, and things were starting to get weird. In the last 48 hours, he'd raised his hand to speak, eaten sandwiches out of a plastic lunch box, twirled a jump-rope for some girls playing double-dutch and pretended to know nothing about firearms. _And_ he'd toned down the display of intelligence a little in most of his classes because he was starting to get more than just dirty looks from his 'classmates'.

Sam just took comfort in the fact that one day this would all be nothing more than a repressed memory.

Inside the school building, it was painfully quiet. Sam's unnaturally small footsteps echoed down the hallway like a cough in a silent theatre. Somewhere in one of the classrooms, a vacuum cleaner was running - and deeper into the maze of halls and classrooms... was that Lynyrd Skynyrd's 'Gimme Back My Bullets'? wafting up from the music studio?

By the time Sam finally stumbled upon a bathroom, he was near desperate and rushed inside, glad to see it was marginally clean. The music was louder now, being deeper in the building. Sam wondered if one of the music classes was having a hoedown. He tried not to giggle at the thought, knowing it would only come out childish and embarrassing. He dried his hands and left.

On his way back past the big double-doors of the music room, Sam's curiosity peaked, and he paused. Now he was right beside the door, it suddenly struck him that what was coming from behind the two inches of light wood sounded far more like a live band than a studio-recorded track. Did Skynyrd ever put out a live album? Dean would know. But it wasn't quite that, either - the instruments, the vocals sounded so... there.

Sam's little hand hovered on the cool steel door handle, pondering. His childish instincts - his curiosity - were trying to get the better of him. He wouldn't let them. He was an adult. Anyway, John had probably arrived by now, and was waiting for him out front. He would have absolutely nothing to gain by acting like a nosey little kid, and humiliating himself even further.

Still, he humored the nagging internal debate.

_Not gonna open that door, right?_

_'Nope, what would I do that for?'_

_Good. 'Cause you know, only kids get curious about silly things like this._

_'That's right. Only kids.'_

Satisfied that the debate had been settled fairly and fully, Sam nodded and turned the handle anyway.

The volume amplified tenfold as the seal was broken - looks like those accusations of the soundproofing budget being embezzled was nothing more than hot air. It _was_ a band - but far from what Sam had been expecting. Four kids had hijacked the music room for an after school band practice... and they really were _kids_, no older than Sam appeared. Kids... but they sounded like pros. The three kids on guitar, bass and drums must have been playing almost their entire lives to get so good at such a young age - and the cover of Sweet Home Alabama they'd moved into was spot-on. What really rooted Sam to the spot, though, was the singer. Kid couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen, but he had the voice of a thirty-year-old rocker. Not to mention an _incredible_ knack for impressions. He sang like he was channeling an entirely different voice.

None of them saw Sam watching, and as he allowed his adult mind to the forefront, he decided he'd like to keep it that way, and eased the door closed again with a soft _click_.

He could still hear the band practicing as he left the way he came. But now, instead of thinking of a southern rock album, he couldn't get rid of the image of those kids. And that vocalist... was incredible. Dean would _love_ to hear about this.

-----------------------

Warren sat alone on the bus.

No one sat beside him. No one sat in the seats behind or in front of him, either. Like he was a virus. It wasn't only on the bus, either. In class, at lunch, no one ever sat near him.

Except Sam.

When the small, curly-haired boy had been placed in his class on his first day of school halfway through the year, he took the only empty seat in the class - the one next to Warren. Sam had been a breath of fresh air from the moment he sat down beside him on that day three or four months ago. The brunette kid had smiled at him - not sarcastically, not grimaced... genuine. He'd smiled and introduced himself in a low whisper so the teacher wouldn't tell them off for talking. He'd become his friend. Warren's _first_ friend.

But lately, Sam had been acting different. It was only over the last couple days, but his friend - his _best_ friend - was suddenly acting like someone else. Kind of... older. And far more distant. Like everyone else, Sam was behaving like he'd rather not be around him.

And it killed him, knowing that he might lose his only friend. He'd just have to try harder - _much_ harder - to be a better friend.

-----------------------

"What took you so long?" Sam complained as the Impala roared out of the silent school parking lot.

"There was a, uh... _hold up_ at Dean's school." John glanced sideways at the slightly smirking boy riding shotgun. He spoke the next part more for Dean's benefit than for Sam's. "I had to speak with the _principal_. Convinced him not to expel you on the spot."

_Oh geez. Only two days as rediscovered teenagers... what'd Dean do now?_

"I _barely_ shoved the guy!" Dean complained loudly. He was still unable to shake the ever-so slightly pleased-with-himself expression from his face.

"You _decked_ him, Dean." John growled. "Broke the kid's nose."

"... not like he didn't deserve it." Dean grumbled.

"Whether he deserved it or not, both you boys know keeping a low profile needs to be one of our top priorities." John scolded, not once taking his eyes off the road. "And aside from that, I don't like you fighting at school."

"Tell that to Rick the One Trick Pony." Dean rolled his eyes, visibly unimpressed. "I didn't start it, Dad."

John said nothing, and kept his eyes on the road. Dean knew, when it came to things which got his father's knickers in a twist, his sons fighting wasn't even in the top ten. Mostly, it only served as a reminder that his boys could be independent and look out for themselves - and that was something John needed to know. He'd told him that the day after Dean left school - which wouldn't be for almost a year. Still, Dean had been glad to hear it because, well, even when he wasn't a twenty-seven year old doing the time warp, he had still participated in (and conducted) his fair share of schoolyard brawls.

Dean leaned back in the front seat and caught Sam's eye in the rearview mirror. He smiled, and Sam smiled back. It was a reassuring smile, and the mutual message was unspoken, but blindingly clear; '_We'll figure this out._'


	6. Last Nerve

The cheap, digital clock said 1.53am, but John's mind disagreed. He wasn't ready to sleep yet.

John was no stranger to midnight snacks, nor was he to fighting off insomnia. There was always something heavy on his mind, whether it was his last kill, his next hunt or his family - and there was a whole level of sleeplessness reserved for _that_ particular category. He had more qualms than the average man, and they all had that irritating quality of, not keeping him involuntarily awake, but keeping him from _wanting_ to sleep. He knew what nightmares were like, and just like everything else in this gracious world, there seemed to be extra-special John-Winchester nightmares reserved just for him. More bang for your buck.

Under any other conditions, he would have felt liberated.

But the warm, orange glow emanating from the pits of the toaster looked more like hellfire in the early-morning darkness than the necessary, toast-giving heat that it was. Because tonight, he was worried about his boys.

It was like they had forgotten how to be _them_, and that scared him. Scared him because there was never any real guarantee that they _were_ themselves. True to his word, he had made up several batches of coffee with holy water substituting the motel crap, even allowing Sammy a cup, and was infinitely glad when the only effect it had on them was wiping away the cobwebs and a little of Dean's grouchiness.

But with 'possessed' crossed off the list, that still left a multitude of possibilities - even that this strange behavior was nothing supernatural at all, and simply a weird, teenage phase. He found himself almost wishing the cause _was_ supernatural; those things he could deal with in a days work. Teenage mood swings were more difficult to apprehend.

Sometimes he worried that he wasn't a good enough father to his boys, but it was times like these that reminded him he had special circumstances to contend with. Most parents weren't kept awake wondering if their kids had been replaced by shapeshifters, or if it was just acne getting them down.

Steam began rising from the two, toast-shaped pits of hell and he flicked the switch off at the wall, snatching the toast before anything _else_ could climb out. Dean's spatula technique ensured the bread was charred good and black, but John was too tired and too hungry to really care.

The clock read 2.14am, and John's mind was beginning to agree.

* * *

Friday had never been so gratefully received; for Sam because he could finally stop pretending so hard to be a kid (even if it was only for two days), and for Dean because it was the magical time of Fish-stick Friday.

Much to Dean's displeasure, Sam had asked John if they could leave a little earlier, in hopes of beating Warren's school bus. Once Dean found out Sam had been talked into playing hopscotch for about five minutes, Sam knew he wouldn't hear the end of it... and there was only so much annoyance he could handle in one day. Dean, he had to live with. Warren, he could avoid.

So as Sam ambled down the school corridors, walking anywhere that wasn't out by the front gates where his 'BFF' would surely be waiting, he tried to use his time productively, and began brainstorming reasons why they might have made this time-leap. God knows at least one of them should be.

The first thought which came to him, he thought must have been drawn from a movie he'd seen once; a character is sent back in time because they made a big mistake in their past and needed to correct it. But, that being said, those sorts of things only _did_ happen in movies. Cheesy, _cheesy_ movies. Besides, the Winchester backstory had been a maze of wrong-turns... it would be impossible to pin down just one to cause such a phenomenon.

Well... aside from the one which started it all - the mother of all wrong-turns. Excuse the pun.

But, if they were meant to prevent _that_, whoever or _whatever_ had sent them back had aimed about twelve years too late. So, scratch that theory.

As Sam passed easily under a low doorframe without even having to duck, he wondered idly if someone hated them and was simply taking great pleasure in screwing with them. They were doing a pretty good job, if that was the case, although he got the feeling that Dean wasn't hating the situation quite as much as Sam was. Even so, that theory was unlikely, too. True, hunting hadn't earned them many friends of the supernatural kind, but each enemy they'd ever made which Sam considered had two very strong, very vindicating alibis. No motive. No means.

_Fine. Scratch that, too._ He grumbled and turned a corner.

"Hey Sam."

Sam jumped and for a moment of paranoia, he thought that Warren had found him. But the voice was different, less desperate and dependant. More genuinely friendly. He turned towards the voice.

Almost instantly, he recognized him as the singer he'd seen practicing with his band the night before. He was about Sam's 'age', maybe a year older. Up close, he looked different... more normal. Just a normal kid. But, that probably had less to do with being up close and more to do with him not channeling his inner Ronnie Van Zant.

"Hey... um..?"

"Tanner." The boy smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I know we only hung out that one time, but I saw you struggling with the Resnick kid, and well..."

Sam grinned in return. _So it was obvious._ "Who, Warren? Well yeah, he's a little intense, but he's a good kid."

Tanner gave him a strange look. Sam let out a nervous chuckle. _Damn, these kids were observant._

"Uh, friend... is what I meant to say. He's a good friend."

"You're the only one who thinks so, then." Tanner shrugged. "But each to his own… or whatever."

Suddenly, Sam remembered the evening before, and curiosity got the better of him. "Hey, I saw you practicing with your band yesterday afternoon." He raised his eyebrows in approval. "You guys are pretty amazing."

Tanner grinned, obviously pleased. "You think so? Well, thanks. Those guys are amazing musos, they deserve the credit... I just have a knack for impressions."

This kid was far easier to genuinely get along with than Warren, and he found himself not acting, but rather simply enjoying Tanner's company.

Sam nodded enthusiastically. "Boy, do you! I woulda sworn that was the real deal in there before I opened the door."

Tanner cocked an eyebrow. "You seem kinda young to be a Skynyrd fan."

"I'm older than I look." Sam replied easily, the double-meaning never being truer. Right now, he was feeling like one helluva late bloomer.

"Really?" Tanner grinned. "Well, I'm glad you liked it. I only discovered it lately, the talent. I thought it was pretty cool when I first realized I could do it, so I've been working on developing the skill further. I can do Hetfield too, you know."

"You're kidding!" Sam didn't bother trying to hide his amazement. He would have been skeptical, but he'd already seen what the kid could do. The idea of a voice of such gravelly angst coming out of the small, innocent-looking package did more than raise an eyebrow.

"I don't kid about music." Tanner winked. "In fact, if you ever wanna come by and watch a practice, we're in there every Thursday after school."

"Sounds good." Sam nodded. "My brother would love to see you guys. His music tastes are straight from the mullet rock Hall of Fame."

"Sweet." The kid said. "Bring him along too."

"Sure." Sam grinned, not sure if he had the intention of doing any such thing, but wanting to please the kid anyway. "I guess I will."

* * *

Sam was almost in the clear. He'd gone the whole day without running into Warren, and he'd managed to avoid him pretty well in classes. Mostly, by not actually _going_ to many of his classes. Hey, what worked, worked. And now he could see the Impala parked out by the road, John outside leaning against the door and Dean sprawled lazily across the back bench, and Sam couldn't help feeling that by now, surely, he must be running home free.

"SAM!!"

_Oh God, I jinxed it!_

And sure enough, it was Warren. Crazy, chubby Warren, running at him with his legs flailing and brandishing something that looked suspiciously like a cookie tin. He reached Sam, panting, but that didn't stop him babbling in a rush between breaths.

"I thought... you were away again cause... you weren't in any of my classes and... I went looking for you but I couldn't find you and..." He held out the object clutched between his hands, which _was,_ in fact, a cookie tin. "I made you some cookies!"

_Oh please, please not in front of Dad and Dean. Especially not Dean. I can't take any more teasing._

But, of course, they were both watching. John trying to look patient, but with the underlying expression of 'get a move on', and Dean guffawing in the back seat.

Sam kept his face dangerously blank, much like he did the many times he'd had to tell an embarrassing lie to a stranger - usually thanks to Dean. He couldn't bring himself to crack a smile, but nor could he break this kid's heart... as pathetic as he was acting.

"Wow, thanks Warren." Sam politely took a gingerbread man coated in green icing from the ocean of brightly-colored cookie-men. Warren must have robbed an art store to get such bright, unhealthily colored icing, and Sam was forcefully reminded of the time during a hunt only a few months ago, that Dean had made him paint a frat boy purple.

But even that was nowhere near as degrading as this.

"They're for you!" Warren shoved the whole tin into Sam's arms, startling him. "I baked 'em myself! You know, cause that's what friends do, right? And I'm a good friend."

_'Friends bake friends cookies?'_ Sam wondered. _'Is that a general rule?'_

Instead of speaking his thoughts aloud, he feigned a tight smile, and mumbled. "'Course y'are."

The deep rumble of John clearing his throat proposed his getaway. Sam nearly leaped with excitement.

"That's my dad over there." He fought to keep his voice steady. "And he's waiting for me, so... I guess I'll see you on Monday." _Hopefully not, actually._ Sam added mentally. _If there's any justice in this world, by Monday I'll be a foot taller, ten years older and putting this whole embarrassment way, WAY behind me._


	7. In All Honesty

As it turned out, school had its uses. For one, it's a good cover for going to the library – research on curses pretexting as a 'school paper' can never miss. John had watched them suspiciously while they grinned nervously and scooted out the door. He'd been acting strange towards them all week, and they could only assume it was because their façade wasn't convincing enough, regardless of the effort they'd spent keeping it up. Needless to say, Saturday was a blessing for both of them.

Entering the surprisingly air-conditioned library and heading straight for the 'local history' section felt nostalgic in every way.

"Just like old times, huh, Dean?" Sam tried on a grin.

"Man. That statement is just _loaded_ with irony." Was all Dean said, and Sam agreed despite himself.

"Telling Dad would fix this, Dean." Sam said quietly after a long silence filled with dusty books and a whole lotta nothin'.

"Not everything." Dean looked up from the thick book. "You'd still be workin' the Tiny Tim look."

Sam chose to rise above the jab. "But maybe not for as long. Even now, in this time, Dad knew a hell of a lot about hunting. And phenomena. And maybe a way to get us out of this. Or at least a lead."

Dean said nothing. He didn't even appear to be considering it. Sam waited a few moments. Still nothing. He sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Alright, we'll do it your way. What've you got?"

"Not a lot." Dean admitted, flipping back through pages he'd dog-eared. "Between 1992 and 1994 there was a major kidnapping ring at large. Nine people went missing-"

"We're a little late for that." Sam cut in.

"Yeah…" Dean agreed. "and if it was anything supernatural, I'm betting Dad got the bastard anyway."

Sam nodded. "What sort of creature could cause something like this, anyway? It'd have to be something pretty powerful. I mean, this is practically_ time travel_. I've never heard anything like it."

"Didn't part of Dad's journal mention something about a trickster?" Dean asked.

Sam remembered the page, littered with John's black scribble. They'd been through the book so many times that he could almost see it in his head, word-for-word. "I guess there's no proof any of this is real. But we've never seen a trickster, never fought or killed one. There'd be no reason for it to target us."

"Yeah, you're right." Dean reluctantly agreed. "Plus, they go after folks high and mighty." He cocked his head and Sam laughed. "'nuff said."

"Well if it's not something screwing with us, that doesn't leave too many options." Sam rubbed a tiny hand over his face. "You think we were sent back for a reason? To do something?"

Dean shrugged. "Or undo something." This idea was far more appealing to both of them.

"So, if we go with Option B, in theory, all we really need to do is find out what we have to fix and fix it." Sam tried out.

"In theory." Dean nodded.

* * *

When they arrived home, John was waiting for them.

"How's the book report?" He asked icily. If it hadn't been his tone which gave him away, it would have been his question – John NEVER asked anything about school.

"Fine." Sam replied shortly, making sure he kept HIS tone young and innocent. "What's wrong, Dad?"

John didn't answer, but he gestured to the kitchen table, and ordered them to sit. No pleasantries, just 'sit down'. His face never changed from the stony, set blank expression. Even in '96, they both would have known him well enough to tell it was his most dangerous expression of all.

Sam was about to open his mouth to say something, but John chose that moment to decide the cold silence had served its purpose. He looked them dead in the eyes. "You boys are beginning to scare me."

Dean forced a short, nervous chuckle which sounded more like a choke. "What do you mean?"

John lowered himself to their level, serious, near-mad glint in his eye portraying the air of a man too far-gone with Jack or Jim to be accountable for his actions, but there was no hint of hard liquor as he bent down. 'John Winchester' mixed with suspicion was potent enough.

"I don't know what's gotten into the two of you, but I want it gone, you understand?" Their father warned. "The two of you… you're keeping me up at night. I'm worried, and I can't wrap my head around it."

Far be it for John Winchester to admit he was worried. But even less likely was what he did next.

"Until I'm satisfied you boys are _alright_," He stressed that last word… 'alright' could have a range of alternatives when it came to their family. "I don't want you to leave this apartment except for school."

"WHAT?" Sam exploded, and even Dean jumped. It wasn't like Sam to explode, but it wasn't unlike him to explode at their father. That old rivalry was slipping back into the mix, despite how long Sam had managed to keep it at bay. For a moment, he was who he _was_, not who he was _supposed_ to be. "What the _hell_?"

"Sam, don't speak to me like that." John said wearily. "I'm telling you because I'm worried about you. Both of you."

"There's nothing wrong with us, Dad!" If this was Sam's idea of self-preservation, Dean was beginning to get concerned. "You're just looking too deep. Do you want something to be wrong? Something you can fix? 'Cause if it's not broken-"

"I've heard enough out of you, Sam." John's voice was flat and stern. A command. "I want you to go to the bedroom and stay there."

"No, not this time." Sam refused. "I'm through with you treating us like children."

Dean got the idea the last part wasn't just in total reference to their current situation. The adult Sam was slipping through their thin-but-neatly-kept façade, and Dean knew how his brother felt about their father keeping them in the dark.

"You are my son. A _child_, and you will behave accordingly."

"For Christ's sake, Dad, I'm twenty-three!"

Even the birds outside fell silent.

"What did you say?"

Sam suddenly seemed to come back to himself, realizing what he had just admitted to. Shaking his head quickly, as if that would take it back, he fumbled with an excuse.

"I s-said… I'm thirteen… that's old enough to-"

"No, you said something else. You said you're twenty-three." John recounted quietly. Lethally.

"N-no… I didn't…" Sam's voice was shaking more with fear of blowing their cover than for fear of John, but he knew it wouldn't look that way to Dean, who was standing to the side of the room, trying to become invisible and hoping to God their father wouldn't turn on him next. Sam confirmed once more for good measure. "I'm thirteen."

"That isn't what you said." John growled, eyes flicking between his two sons – wild, like insects trapped behind glass. "Sam, I want to know what's going on right now."

Sam sent a glance at Dean for direction, but the elder just looked back helplessly. What _could_ they do?

"It's gonna sound crazy…" Sam began cautiously, little voice sounding smaller than ever.

"Crazy's our game." John's tone had softened ever-so-slightly. "Tell me."

It wasn't hard for Sam to think of a way to put this monumental revelation, having played possible outcomes over and over in his head since they'd found themselves in this mess. "What you have to understand is, we didn't mean for this to happen. We're not even sure _how_ it happened. We're just trying to fix it.

"The thing is, I _am_ twenty-three. Dean's twenty-seven. It'd be ridiculous to say we're from the future, but I guess that's sort of what this is. We just woke up one day, in this motel room, looking like this. Ten years younger. There's no better way I can explain it than that."

A long, long silence followed, broken finally by an uncharacteristically shaky breath from John, and an even more uncharacteristically timid "Where are my boys?"

He believed them, of course he did. It was a shock to the system, sure, but Sam was certain there wasn't a single paranormal thing he could say that his father wouldn't take seriously.

"Right here, I promise. Right here. I'm still Sam, he's still Dean. We're just… older. For a while. I guess." Sam looked across the room as Dean caught his eye, winked sarcastically and mouthed 'smooth'.

John let out another slow breath, punctuated by a bitter bark of a laugh. He shook his head in disbelief. "So that's what all this is."

Sam nodded. Quietly; "Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me from the start?" Was John's next question.

"I guess we, uh… thought we could-"

"We didn't want to scare you." Dean interrupted, stepping forward for the first time. "We weren't even sure you'd believe us, for one. And if you didn't… well, that'd just be awkward."

Dean forced a chuckle. So did Sam and John. Things weren't gonna be normal for a while.

* * *

"Why'd you tell him, Sam?"

Later on that night was when it came out, the bitter, regretful tone in Dean's voice forcing Sam to turn and face him in disbelief.

"What was I supposed to do? He worked it out." Sam replied defensively.

"No, he didn't." Dean shook his head. "Dad knew _something_ was up, but a decent cover story would've set him straight."

"I didn't _mean_ to tell him, alright?" Sam growled, sitting up in bed and flicking on the lamp. "It was in the heat of the moment, and it just slipped out. Honest mistake. And you know what? It's probably for the better, anyway."

"How do you figure that?" Dean didn't even meet his gaze.

"Well, for one, now he can help us." Sam counted on his fingers. "Two, he can stop wondering what the hell's _wrong_. Three, we can stop pretending-"

"You don't get it, do you?" Dean interrupted. "It wasn't just about getting caught and getting the John Winchester Seminar. It's about him, Sam, that's why I didn't want him to know. He thought we were his kids, and hell, in a way we are, but we're not the kids he knows. Something like that… it could destroy a man."

"Not Dad." Sam shook his head. "He's stronger than that."

Dean shrugged, and rolled over.

It wasn't until much later that Sam saw his father in the kitchen, sitting alone in the single patch of moonlight, with a bottle of Jack on the table and his head in his hands.


	8. Just A Neat Party Trick

After breakfast the next morning, Dean took John aside and asked him about their situation. The man was still in shock, but he seemed to be at the accept-and-just-try-to-understand-it stage.

"Have you come across anything like this before?"

John shook his head, unnaturally reserved, speaking to his son-but-not-quite. "Never in my life. Time travel? It's science fiction, it's never come up before."

Dean sighed. "Yeah… that's what I thought."

"You know, I don't know if I'm relieved or not." John finally said after a short silence, during which both of them mentally begged the other to speak. Dean quirked an eyebrow for him to continue. "I thought you were possessed, or… I don't know. Dark doubles. I'm sure that would have been easier to get my head around."

"Aw, come on, this isn't so bad." Dean tried the humorous approach, as per usual. "You could take some serious advantage of this. How often do you get a chance for a sneak preview?"

"Dean, I wouldn't want to know how things turn out even if you asked me." John didn't miss a beat. "Things are better found out when the time comes. Just knowing the two of you are safe and alive is enough."

_And what about you?_ Dean found himself thinking. _Fast forward ten years and God knows where you are._

* * *

Monday.

Eugh. Monday.

If it weren't for Sam's (some might say 'irrational') fear of messing with the past and inadvertently changing the future, he'd be home with Dean right now, helping him build a tower out of matchsticks and falling silent whenever John came into view. Now the whole household was in on their secret, there was no need for them to keep up the front and continue going to school… but Sam couldn't bear the thought of returning to normal just to discover he'd dropped 50 IQ points because he'd left school at thirteen.

The same idea hadn't seemed to bother Dean quite as much.

So instead of relaxing at home and trying to solve this thing, he was sitting in a classroom, not even sure what subject he was supposed to be learning, trying to ignore the incessant whispers of 'Sam! Saaaam!' coming from the back right-hand corner where he'd deliberately NOT chosen a seat.

And to moan for the sake of moaning – because Sam was just in that kind of mood – he was still short.

'Saved by the bell' was a cliché he would never scoff at again; the loud ringing truly was a magical sound when one was in his position – although, to be fair, very few were. Sam bolted from the room. He'd never been a heavy drinker, but right now, he could use a couple shots more than anything. Understandably, remembering that he was meant to be only thirteen and definitely not admitted into any bars worsened his mood.

Through the scatter of kids hyped up on recess, and as Sam tried his best to stealthily evade his 'BFF', he caught a glimpse of something which made him stop for a minute.

"Hey… hey, Tanner!" Sam called out and jogged after the boy.

He turned around, and Sam was surprised to see his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his skin had paled, covered in a light film of sweat. But above all that, the short, light brown crop which had been similar to Dean's in style had grown at least a foot and a half over the weekend.

"You wearing a wig or something? What happened to your hair?" Sam asked.

"It was like this this morning." Tanner replied with a weary tone. "My mom thinks I'm taking steroids."

"…are you?" Asked Sam, recalling the kid's incredible talent for impressions of men far beyond his years.

"No way. I heard drugs screw with your voice, anyway, my band would kick me out." Tanner said earnestly.

"So then… how..?"

Tanner leaned in close, keeping his voice low. He didn't look scared… worried at the most, but his voice portrayed far more. "I wish I could tell you, but I don't have a clue what's happening to me."

* * *

When Sam got home that afternoon (he'd insisted he was old enough to take the bus by himself, and John couldn't argue) he wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to find. Dean and John at each others throats? Maybe. John researching through thousand-year-old texts and Dean watching wrestling on TV? Probably more likely.

He hadn't expected to open the door to the two of them sitting on the couch, each with a beer in one hand and a bag of peanuts between them, laughing at some inside joke.

Yeah, that was a surprise.

Sam stepped into the room, face housing an awkward half-smile. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, hey Sam." John greeted him between chuckles. "Dean was just telling me about how he took down that bully at school last week."

"I thought you didn't like us fighting at school." Sam frowned.

"You boys are adults now, aren't ya?" John cocked an eyebrow. "Old enough to know it doesn't bother me half as much as I make out. That 'n other things."

"What things?" Sam probed, all too aware that he probably had the empty beer bottles scattering the floor to thank for John's openness going this far.

John shrugged. "I'll tell you when you do 'em."

Sam rolled his eyes, grinning just a little, and crossed the room to put his bag down, which was beginning to feel like it weighed a ton.

"So, you two look like you've had a productive day." Sam commented sarcastically as Dean tilted his head back and flicked a peanut into his mouth with perfect aim. "Whatcha been doing?"

"Bonding." Dean replied without missing a beat, promptly fighting off a fit of laughter.

"Right. Yeah, okay." Sam rolled his eyes again and stalked off into the bedroom, dragging his bag behind him.

The late afternoon sun was streaming in the bare, dusty window, and for a moment as he looked back, the sharp shadow along John's jaw made it look like his hair had grown.

"Oh!" Sam exclaimed, and doubled back.

"Dean, I met someone today."

"Yeah? She hot?"

Sam rolled his eyes, and sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing them. "Not a _girl_, Dean -"

Dean looked alarmed. "Whoa, whoa, stop right there Sammy -"

"Would you just listen?" Sam was beginning to get frustrated. "I think he might be a lead in why we're here."

Suddenly, Dean was all jokes aside. John was listening too.

"Today, his hair had grown more than a foot just over the weekend." Sam continued. "And last week, I heard him practicing with his band, doing an exact impersonation of Ronnie Van Zant."

Dean was frowning at the floor. "So… because he overdosed on Hairnergizer and he can sing, you think he's the devil in disguise?"

"Dean, the kids like fourteen. And it's strange, right?" Sam pressed. "It's the only possible lead we have, and if we really were brought back to stop something, shouldn't we at least look into this?"

"Yeah, alright." Dean nodded. "See if you can interrogate him some more tomorrow."

Just as Sam was about to leave, he noticed John, sitting quietly beside Dean, listening. He caught his eye, and John gave him a smile and a solid nod.

He grinned and took another swig. "That's my boys."

* * *

"Hey, Tanner. You're looking better today." Sam commented as he spotted the boy just inside the school gates. He'd cut his hair short again, and his skin had its healthy tan back.

"Yeah, I feel better." The kid nodded with a grin, and the way he said it made Sam think it held more stock than just face value.

"So, uh, fever all gone?" Sam probed cautiously, then added approvingly. "You cut your hair."

Tanner grinned that same mysterious grin. "That's the thing. I didn't."

"What?"

"C'mere."

Tanner led him behind a building, glancing around to make sure no one was following them.

"I didn't cut it." He said again once they were out of sight, with the tall white wall of a classroom on one side of them, and the freshly mown football field on the other. "I just… wanted it to be short again. And it was."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." Tanner winked, a big grin on his face. "And check this out."

For a few seconds, it didn't seem like anything was happening, but slowly, Sam noticed Tanner's hair was beginning to lengthen again. Like it was taking on a life of its own, the strands snaked down to his shoulders, then receded back into his scalp again, creating the neat, boyish cut in less than twenty seconds.

Sam didn't have to feign shock, his natural reaction was enough. He stared at Tanner in amazement and the kid wiggled his eyebrows.

"Neat, huh?"


	9. Compos Mentis

**AUTHOR'S NOTE/FOREWORD**  
As you must have noticed by now, I'm one of the few writers who doesn't put an author's note at the beginning of each chapter. It's because I don't like 'em. But the A/N and I had to put our differences aside, because I felt this chapter needed one.

Firstly, there's been a lot of confusion over John's status, and most of you assume him dead (in Sam and Dean's time). This is actually set during season one, which you'll realize if you go back and re-read some of Chapter 1. Set just after Hookman, the boys have been looking for their father for months, but haven't received any contact. Yes, in their minds, he _could_ be dead, but we all know he's not. He's just missing. I'm sure I could have made this more obvious had I employed the use of a dreaded Author's Note. But I did not, so you'll just have to read more closely.

Secondly, there's going to be a shout-out in this chapter to a canon character whom Sam & Dean haven't actually met yet… yeah, I know, get your head around that one. You'll see it when you see it, I just wanted to clear up the fact that it's a shout-out, not a rip-off. We also find out a little more about Warren and who he is family-wise, so see if you can pick that up. I gave quite a big hint back in Chapter Six, and I was surprised that no one picked it out. But like I said, it's not monumental to the storyline, it's just a fun little connection.

And lastly, I suppose since I'm doing this author's note thing, I should take the opportunity to thank ALL the kind readers who've been reviewing this story. It really is for y'all, you guys who raise your voice and give me something to keep me writing. If I ever need motivation, I can literally go back through old reviews which I've read fifty times and they'll still make me happier than an old woman eating a pickle. Just that in itself will be enough to get me writing. I know this story gets read, because I look at the hits. But I know this story is _appreciated_, because I look at the reviews. If everyone who read it left a review, I'd have over 10,000 of 'em, which I clearly do not, so really I just want to direct an enormous thank you to everyone who's given me their opinion, good or bad, because that's what keeps this story on the 'recently updated' page.

I swear it, you guys. You keep me going. You're fantastic.

* * *

The chill wind was strong enough to move the swings as if some invisible kids were riding them, but Sam hardly registered it. This was it. Tanner was the reason they'd been brought back. He had to be. What they had to do about him, Sam had no idea. But the things he could do were no coincidence.

The bell had rung at least ten minutes ago, and Sam was by himself in the playground. The cold concrete met the grey sky at the horizon and created some sort of huge looming montage which made him feel infinitely alone.

He had to work out his next move, but his situation disadvantaged him to extremes. He couldn't walk back to the motel, and stealing a car with his young face would triple the risk already involved. He wasn't even sure he wanted to leave yet – after all, he still didn't know anything about Tanner except his abilities. Whether he had them because he was some sort of supernatural creature or for some other reason entirely was still unknown to Sam.

Still, going to class wasn't an option. He had to find somewhere to think and drag out all the possibilities.

He quickly crossed the quad towards the football field and hunkered down under the bleachers just as the first drops of rain started pelting against the slats of wood. For the first time since it happened, Sam found he was quite glad that he was so small.

He wanted to get in touch with Dean, just to let him know that they had a definite lead, but they only way he could do that would be to ask to use the school phone – and he would almost certainly be dragged back to class. It might just be his renewed focus on the job, but he really didn't feel like punching any school nurses in the face today.

The wind whistled through the bleachers, and for a moment the high-pitched wail almost sounded like 'Saaam!'

Sam shivered against the cold, and focused on the task ahead of him. As far as he could see, there were two options as to how Tanner was involved. Either he was _in_ danger, or he _was_ the danger. He picked at a loose thread on his jeans while he weighed up the odds.

'Saaam! Saaaaammm!' wailed through the bare trees again and again, but he barely even noticed it.

Tanner seemed genuine, and if he was any sort of threat, he either didn't know it yet or he was a shockingly good actor. Kidnapping him – at this point – wasn't an option. He wasn't even sure he'd be able to if he tried. Tanner was about fourteen, and a few inches taller than Sam. But, that didn't matter anyway. For now, he'd be taking the subtle approach.

'Saaamm' drifted through the trees again and whistled past his ears. 'Saaaammm!'

The wind's cries were becoming far more solid and lifelike, and Sam was beginning to think it wasn't the wind at all. He stepped out from under the bleachers and looked around the deserted field and playground cautiously, guard already going up. The grounds were silent, bleak; lurking.

"SAM!" The source of the sound was finally revealed as Sam turned and saw Warren catapulting across the dewy football field.

"Oh, jeez." Sam muttered under his breath.

Warren's short limbs were flailing in his attempts to reach him before he could 'escape' – because, by the look and sound of him, he'd been searching for Sam for a very long time.

"Don't try to run off! Not this time!" Warren shouted between gasps for air. Despite the fact that this was the LAST thing Sam needed, he found he was surprised that Warren seemed to actually be trying to stand up for himself. He skidded to a messy halt in front of Sam and did all but cling to him.

"I'm not running." Sam shrugged, although he wished he were. Especially since the light drops of rain were getting heavier now, and he was beginning to get soaked through.

"You've been avoiding me lately. You think I don't notice -"

"I haven't been avoiding you, Warren." Sam felt only the slightest twinge of guilt at the lie.

"You have!" Warren's eyes bugged out in overzealous desperation. "You have, and you know what else? You've been acting different too, for days now, and if you think I don't notice that either, you're wrong."

"Warren, I'm -"

"Don't bother trying to explain!" He snapped, then his face softened, and he smiled a little with something that looked like pride. "Don't bother explaining, because I already know. I worked it all out. You aren't Sam."

Warren's words threw Sam for a moment, and the shock must have registered on his face because Warren's took on a similar expression… probably from the shock of being right.

"What are you talking about?" Sam started cautiously. "Of course I'm Sam."

"No, you're not." Warren shook his head vigorously, looking close to tears. "I know Sam, he's my best friend. And you're not him. You're not anything like him."

"I promise you, Warren, I am Sam."

"You're lying!" The kid shouted, and the rain seemed to increase in intensity as he increased in volume. "You're something else. A... a body-snatcher... or a mandroid!"

Sam wrinkled his nose in confusion. "...a mandroid?"

"Yeah, my brother Ronald told me all about them. You. Mandroids. They're real, and you're one of them."

Sam was about to lose his cool. He needed to be focusing on Tanner, not trying to win a verbal wrestling tournament with this weirdo kid. "Jesus Christ, Warren, I'm not a Mandroid!"

"Then what are you? Because I _know_ you're not my best friend, and the only way you could have taken his place is if you're a mandroid! You look like him… you're disguise is pretty good, but it won't fool me."

_Actually_, Sam found himself thinking, _the only way someone can physically change to look like someone else is if they're a Shapeshifter._

And then something struck, something like wonder or realization. The rain pounded down around him, but everything had suddenly become silent and still. It was the simple word alone – not even spoken aloud – that had triggered the ultimate epiphany. Cogs turned slowly.

"Shapeshifer…" Sam whispered aloud.

"You're a WHAT?" Warren asked, shock showing on his face.

"No, Warren, I'm not – just… stay here." Sam turned and started to sprint away, but doubled back. "On second thought, go inside or you'll catch a cold."

Warren let out a frustrated growl, and Sam almost felt sorry for the kid. But then he turned and ran.

* * *

Shapeshifter. It made a world of perfect sense. Of course, there were all the little details which he hadn't worked out yet – why he still seemed like such an incredibly genuine kid, how he could change only one part of himself – but the framework was there.

As he hunkered down behind parked cars, scouring the parking lot for a suitable target, he took into full account that the heavy rain would make it hard for him to see if anyone was coming. But, it would also make it hard for anyone _else_ to see what he was about to do.

* * *

Sam hurtled down the slick road in a dubiously acquired Sedan. It was years of living with Dean which had made him such a master behind the wheel. He'd been overjoyed when he found his short little legs could just reach the pedals.

He took a corner with an uncharacteristic skid. He knew he should drive more carefully – if he got pulled over looking the way he was, he was done for. But he _had_ to get back to the motel.

* * *

"You got any nines?" Was the last thing audible before the motel room door banged open and Sam staggered in, bringing the rain and wind with him. Dripping wet, he wrestled the door shut behind him.

Both the older Winchesters stared at him for a moment, then Dean laid down his cards, eyeing Sam with curiosity and directing a redundant 'Go fish' at John.

"What are you doing home early?" John asked. He didn't sound mad – Sam didn't actually have to be at school, after all. He just sounded curious, like Dean.

Sam disregarded John's question. "I know what Tanner has to do with us being here."

"Who?" Both Dean and John asked in unison.

"The kid from school." Sam said in a rush. "With the voice, and the… hair. I told you there was something about him, and now… I figured it out today, I mean, I think… he's a Shapeshifter, I'm certain."

"Woah, wait." Dean was on his feet. "How do you know?"

"He just… showed me some things today, and then Warren… I dunno, man, I just clicked. Trust me on this."

Suddenly Dean got a strange look on his face. A deep-in-thought, don't-touch-me-I'm-thinking look of contemplation. Sam could almost see right through his skull to the cogs turning slowly in his head.

"Dad… where are we?" He finally asked.

John frowned. "The Cedarpoint Inn, you boys know that."

"No, I mean what state?"

"Missouri. St. Louis. Why?"

Sam's eyes met Dean's, and all of a sudden everything fitted into place. The time, the place, what they had to do and why. Even with the help of Sam's discovery, they'd had no idea why they'd been linked to this Tanner kid. They couldn't be brought back to keep every boy from becoming a killer.

"Wow."

"Crap."

"I was so worried about _when_ we were, I never even thought to check _where_." Sam mumbled to himself

"So it's THE shifter?" Dean mused.

Sam nodded. "I think so."

"THE Shapeshifter?" John queried.

"We killed one of them only three or four months ago." Dean explained.

There was a single moment when a flicker of pride crossed John's face. "You boys did?"

"Yes sir."

"Well, if it's the same one, what are we supposed to do about it? Kill the damn thing ahead of time?" Dean asked.

"What's the point in that? We've already killed it." Sam pointed out. "No, what I'm thinking is, what if we have to save it?"

"Save it?" Dean cocked a skeptical eyebrow.

"Yeah, I mean, this whole thing would be pointless if it was all just to kill the shifter _now_." Sam explained. "Wouldn't it make much more sense to prevent it all from happening?"

"And how in the _Hell_ do we do that?" Dean still wasn't buying into it. "He's a Shapeshifter, man, he's evil. It's not like we can just sit down with a cup of tea and ask 'please don't attack the city'."

Sam said nothing.

"C'mon man, what?" Dean probed.

"…I don't think he's evil."

"Well," Dean frowned. "That's logical."

"No, I really don't. He's a nice kid. He's genuine. I don't think he's acting. If he was evil, why would he have shown me what he can do?"

"I don't know…" Dean struggled for an answer. "To throw you off guard?"

"No Dean, I'm sure about this." Sam insisted. "Remember what Rebecca said the Shapeshifter told her as you? It said they're _born human_, and they _learn_ to do what they do."

"That thing was not human."

"He won't be. But what about now? What if he's got the genes but he's in some state of dormancy?"

"How do we find out?" Dean asked, beginning to think his little brother might actually be onto something, as crazy as it all sounded.

Sam paused. He didn't really want it to come to this. He still trusted the kid… but he couldn't take chances. "We watch him."


	10. Night Territory

If Sam squinted, he could almost pretend everything was back to normal.

Especially when Dean's persistence had found him his favorite radio station, just like it had found him the keys to the Impala. It was late now, complete night territory, and sitting by his brother in the darkness with Rush low on the stereo and the smell of leather rising off the seats like steam from underground made him feel infinitely like himself – more than he had in weeks.

"You sure this is it?" Dean asked as he pulled up across the street from a modest, one-storey town house.

Sam squinted at the mailbox and nodded, taking in the peeling paint on the molding wood. "Yeah, that's the number."

"How'd you get his address anyway?" Dean asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I, uh…" Sam felt his cheeks get hot. Stealing a car wasn't the only thing he'd done today which he wasn't proud of. "I lifted it from his school records in the nurse's office." Dean gave a hoot of approval. "Kid must have more than his fair share of Frequent Heaver points, I mean, the amount of times he's been in there for things like discolored skin, dermatitis -"

"Dermatitis, my ass." Dean grumbled, and killed the engine. "More like symptoms of a dormant Shapeshifter."

"Yeah, well, let's just be sure we're right before we shoot him full of silver, okay?" Sam bit out, sinking lower in the seat to stay out of sight.

They sat there in the car for a couple hours – maybe three, neither of them were counting – with Dean sometimes singing low along with the radio or drumming on his knees, and Sam keeping a close eye on the two lit windows visible from the road. Dean tilted his head back and made some gargling noises in the back of his throat – to pass the time? Who knows? Sam removed his gaze from the house for a couple seconds to give his older brother the best 'seriously?' look he could muster, and Dean swallowed, settling for making popping sounds with his lips instead.

Like many things in his life, Sam chose to just block it out.

As he turned his head back to watch the house, he caught some movement in the front yard. The urgency of the sight made him straighten up on impulse, and he had to force himself to sink low into the seat again and out of sight, dragging Dean and his popping noises with him.

"Dude, what?"

"There." Sam gestured purely with his gaze, not wanting to make too much movement in case Tanner spotted them. "Leaving the house."

Dean checked his watch. "10.40's a little late for a regular kid to go out alone, wouldn't you say?"

Sam raised his eyebrows in agreement.

They waited until he was far enough away, then quietly opened the doors and stepped out. Sam watched him as he went – he didn't look like any kind of night prowler with malicious intentions, he still just looked like a kid, strolling along under the streetlamps with his hands in his pockets.

He was just about to turn to Dean and suggest they go back to the motel, that maybe he was wrong, when the image of Tanner came back to him from earlier that day, dirty blonde hair growing and receding at will. He tried not to think about any moms or dads or siblings that might be waiting for his return inside the small flat, and accepted the gun Dean handed him. For a moment he just looked at it, running his too-small hands over the cool metal.

"Dean."

Dean stopped and turned. "What?"

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat. "Only if we have to."

* * *

"Well, I'll tell ya one thing. _Being_ kids makes it a lot less creepy to _stalk_ a kid."

This was Dean's muttered philosophy as they trailed Tanner down the empty street. Sam didn't bother to point out the fact that they weren't actually kids… he'd been getting tired of stating the obvious.

"To you, maybe." Sam replied sharply. "It doesn't make me feel any better about it."

"Then you've just gotta lighten up, Sammy." Dean encouraged in a low whisper. "It's like any other gig, except we've done it before. I mean, how much easier could it get?"

"Yeah, well… it doesn't _feel_ easy." Sam replied quietly. Up ahead, Tanner paused past a block of shops and turned around.

"Whoa, whoa! Hold it, he's coming back." Sam ordered, and they backed behind a wall out of sight.

Sam peered around the corner, finding nothing but a dead, empty street.

"Damn it." He muttered under his breath.

"What?" Dean asked, eyebrows snapping into action. "What is it?"

Sam sighed and rubbed his face. "He's gone. I… I don't know where. The bastard's quick."

He watched the street for another minute or so, trying to see where he might be hiding, or any possible escape route or manhole.

"Let's give it up, man, maybe check out his house in the morning." Dean suggested, and Sam was about to agree when he saw him. The sight was so far from what he's expected, that he faltered for a minute, brow furrowed deeply.

"Wait…" Sam watched in confusion as Tanner reappeared, stepping out of one of the shops with an ice cream in his hand, tucking loose coins back into his pocket. Suddenly, the gun felt incredibly cold in his hands, incredibly wrong. The idea that he'd considered having to use it on the small kid practically skipping down the road made him feel sick.

Dean nudged his way forward and peered around the corner, facial expression mirroring his brother's. "Now, that can't be right."

"But… I know what I saw. He's gotta be the 'shifter." Sam confirmed, as if that was any help to either of them.

They both watched as he stepped back into the sidewalk and made his way further down the road.

"Come on, Sam, this kid can't be evil." Dean's doubt was beginning to return. "Are you sure that's him?"

"Yes!" Sam insisted, knowing his argument was weak. "It's him, it is. He's still going somewhere else… maybe that was just a pit stop."

Dean locked incredulous eyes with him for a moment, face completely void of expression, except the ever-present waft of sarcasm. "You're right. Yeah, I'll bet he's off to find some evil sprinkles to go with his Waffle Cone of Death."

"Not helping, Dean."

"Really gonna set the streets alight, there."

"Dean! Shut up, he could still be our guy." Sam combated Dean's One Raised Eyebrow of Skepticism with cold, hard logic. "He's a kid! If he was an adult, we wouldn't find it strange if he went into a bar."

"And uh…" Dean leaned forward to read the sign. "Zippy's Ice Cream Parlor is like a kid's bar?"

"…yes."

Dean's shoulders rose then sagged, the tell-tale sign of him giving in. "Fine. We'll keep trailing him, see where he goes."

Sam sighed. "Thank you."

They slipped out from behind the building with the stealth they'd had trained into them, and fluttered along the wall like shadows.

"_Isn't this getting kinda out of hand_?"

Sam jumped. It wasn't Dean who had spoken.

"Tanner!"

The young boy was watching them, seated on the curved back-rest of a park bench, feet planted on the seat.

Both brothers faltered, and ground to a halt. So much for stealth.

"You… knew?"

"Hell, how couldn't I? For someone trying to keep out of sight, I gotta say, that car you've got parked back there is quite the eyesore."

Dean made a low noise deep in his throat.

"You guys don't know when to give up!" Tanner continued. "I thought my detour would be enough to throw you off, but you're like bloodhounds chasing a strong scent!"

"That was a trick?" Sam frowned, only now noticing the splattered ice cream decorating the trash can.

"Duh!" Tanner jibed, proving that, while he may indeed be a Shapeshifter, he was truly still only fourteen. "You guys are pathetic! You actually believed that act? Who the hell eats an ice cream this time of year? It's friggin' March for Chrissakes!"

"But then… today. At school. Why'd you show me..?"

"Well, I didn't know you'd go blow it all out of proportion like this." Tanner reasoned, and Sam moved the gun behind his leg so it was less visible. "What are you… hunters?"

"If you know what we are, then you must know what you are." Sam said, wishing the answer would be 'no'.

"'course I do." The kid nodded. "Known it since I was ten. But… Sam, aren't you a little young to be a hunter?"

"I'm older. Than. I look." Sam ground out from between clenched teeth. Again.

"Well, can't be much older." Tanner mused. "You're a late bloomer as it is."

"Alright," Dean seemed to find it the time to step in "enough with the monologing, kid. You know we're hunters, so you know what we have to do." Sam caught the cry of protest in his throat; did Dean mean they had to kill him? Or save him? They'd talked about this in advance, damnit! "Can't have you killing any more people."

At those words, Tanner's face changed, ultimate, wide-eyed, childlike innocence replacing the smug smirk. "I've never killed anyone in my life!"

The brothers stalled a moment. Neither of them had really expected that Tanner _would_ have killed anyone… yet. But they knew he would. Was that enough?

"Uhm…" Dean fumbled around words while the smile reappeared on Tanner's face.

"You can be my first."

Before either of them had registered the words, Tanner launched himself off the bench and struck Dean, taking them both down.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, not sure whether to drop the gun and drag the kid off or point it. He settled for a leg-shot, and fired.

With Tanner's momentary distraction, Dean managed to shove him off and jump to his feet.

"What the hell!" He yelled, but all he was yelling at was a black shape disappearing with the advantage of the night. Tanner was gone.


	11. Steam from the Underground

"What should we do?"

The kid was gone. Even with a bullet in his leg, his escape had been easily executed. Dean's low whistle and sigh was the only sound in the completely dead night. He absentmindedly rubbed the reddening marks on his throat.

"Damn."

"We can still find him."

The older brother sank onto the cold park bench dotted with dew, careful to avoid the ice cream splatter.

"How d'you figure?" He challenged. "Do you have any idea where he's going now?"

Sam almost laughed. "Dean, we know where he _lives_. When have we ever had that advantage?"

Dean shrugged. "How much of an advantage is it gonna be if he's not even there? I don't really know the kid, but he seems to be going through a rebellious stage. Might not make it home for curfew, y'know, that sort of thing."

Sam sighed and nodded. "Yeah, okay. What time is it, anyway?"

"11.42. Better get moving."

"Mm." Sam agreed. "Plan of attack?"

"Well, I'm not sure how well the 'if I was a teenage shapeshifter' approach will go down," Dean mused. "We need a better reading on his motives."

"Now?" Sam asked. "At a quarter to midnight? Dean, let's just pick this up again in the morning."

"No way, he knows we're after him. If we back off now we're giving him a head-start." Dean reasoned. "Anyway, if we're right about this, the sooner we get this job done, the sooner these," he gestured at the two of them, small frames in awkward proportions "will once again be history."

Sam sighed and nodded. It was frustrating when Dean was right, and even though Sam would swear it was because he wasn't used to it happening, that wasn't true. And although there wasn't much else he wanted to do more than go home and sleep - or even curl up right on the park bench and sleep there - he knew that if they let Tanner escape tonight, they let him escape for good.

"Alright." He agreed. "How do you wanna do this? Interrogate the parents?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, that's a great idea. I'm gonna leave that one up to you though, alright?"

"What? Why?"

"Well, it's just that you're so…" Dean surveyed Sam, trying to come up with an appropriate adjective. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth "…little and cute."

"Dammit, Dean. Not helping."

"No, really. Come on, think about it. These nice people don't want a rebellious, unruly teenager knocking on their door at this time of night."

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "You?"

"Apparently." Dean shrugged. "So go. I'll keep looking for boy wonder."

---

The blunt knocking sound produced by Sam's little fist against the soft, damp wood of the rotting door was far louder than he had anticipated. Could have had something to do with the birds even having retired for the night, but Sam drew his hand back quickly, in any case. He realized how silly this reaction was; his intention was to wake the parents, yet his first instinct was to hope the noise didn't wake the parents. In fact, after a minute or two which contained no windows flushing with light nor the sound of bedsprings and cursewords from deep within the tiny dwelling, Sam raised his fist and pounded harder.

And then again.

And then again.

And one more time.

Mr. & Mrs. Tanner's Parents were hard sleepers, Sam concluded after ten minutes of beating the door's wet, rotting wood to a pulp. He stepped down the one step which set him on the cluttered & mossy concrete path that led around to the back of the house. Sam allowed himself one casual glance behind him as if he was looking for his ride, then once he was satisfied that none of the surrounding neighbors had been disturbed by his impression of a battering ram, he rounded the corner of the house.

Not surprisingly, Sam found that 5'1 was a much preferable height to well over six feet when it came to slipping into stealth mode. He repeated the noble art of breaking and entering just as he had done on hundreds of different occasions, on hundreds of different hunts, only this time - he realized as he neared the window which had a few Metallica stickers stuck on the pane - what he now gained in secret-squirrel-skills, he lost in reaching-a-high-window skills.

He also wondered where one could _possibly_ buy Metallica stickers, and whether the manufacturers realized they were aiming at two very different target audiences.

After a little while digging around in the mess of gardening and toolshed objects which littered neither the garden nor the toolshed, Sam found a bucket which looked sturdy enough to stand on -- minus all the midnight snails which were decorating the inside. He picked them out and turned the bucket upside down under Tanners window, stepping onto it. It was a mild improvement.

The latch on Tanner's window was broken (it seemed like everything in, on or around this house was rotting, breaking or broken) and Sam swung the window neatly open and scrambled in.

---

It was the sixth bar Dean had searched, and the first which didn't turn him away. Unfortunately, it was also the seediest by far. Sam's comment about 'if he were an adult, we wouldn't find it strange if he went into a bar' had prompted him to start away from the residential area and work his way in. He had, though, somehow forgotten his predicament in the excitement and at first been rather confused when the bartender had asked to see his ID.

But sixth times the charm, as they never say, and now the whoreish barmaid was lolling like a loose tongue in the seventh hour of her night shift and Dean had no fear of being thrown out onto the curb. She leaned on the counter, funbags huddled together atop her medieval-style square-neck as if she wasn't already enough of a target. She seemed barely aware of the cigarette slowly wilting away in her right hand, though she waved it side to side in a hypnotizingly dream-like motion. The neon sign behind Dean tinted her nylon blonde hair pink and blue as she leaned further forward and murmured with what sounded like a mouth full of syrup and sugar; "What's a nice boy doing in a place like this?"

"I'm looking for someone." Dean said, as direct as possible, but his eyes were magnetized toward the small cigarette end burning bright and waving back and forth, and back and forth.

"You, angel face? Baby boy? In _my_ bar?" She said to Dean. "You'd best not even dream of it, you would. Sweet boy like you."

Dean blinked away from the swaying red moon-on-fire and raised an indignant hand to his face, knowing he would feel smooth, young skin and a thin jaw, and getting only that. He didn't remember the last time someone had said something so pet-like to him. _Pretty boy_, was what she was saying. _Pretty boy in my bar_. You ain't got no scars, Dean Winchester. None yet.

"I'm looking for a kid. A boy. About fourteen years old." He told her, now watching the rising smoke from her little red moon, making its orbits. "Has he been in here tonight?"

"No, hun, no children allowed in my bar. Fourteen? No, hun. Not tonight."

Dean was silent for a moment, pondering the last thing she said. _Not tonight?_

"Why don't you tell me his name, love?" She suggested. "Tell me his name, I might know him."

Dean searched through his memory. Sam was the one good with names.

"Tanner." He said eventually. "His name's Tanner."

"Tanner." She repeated, staring into the neon-lit otherwise-darkness. "Kid's in a band?"

Dean nodded.

"Kid plays in a band." She self-affirmed. "Yeah, I know him. Mighta played here a couple times, I don't know, could lose my liquor license, I can't quite remember."

Now he was getting somewhere. "Does he come in here often? Where else does he go?"

"Might come in here, I don't know." The barmaid wove her cryptic web as if she thought she was a master. "Comes in here before going off to the underpass, he might do. God knows what he does there. Never has a drink though, I don't allow children to drink in my bar."

"The underpass?" Dean asked. "Does he ever have anything with him? Maybe a… a paper bag with something in it or..."

"He's got that backpack." She confirmed. "Never seen what's in it, can't imagine it would be anything of interest to the likes of you and me, angel."

"Yeah, trading cards, I'm sure." Dean quipped. He spun on the barstool, having gotten everything he needed, and sauntered away from the degradation, the dream and the little red moon.


	12. Floorboards

When Sam's feet landed softly on the worn, potato-sack carpet of Tanner's bedroom, the first thing he saw gave him such a fright he nearly yelled. There was a kid-shaped lump under the duvet on Tanner's single bed, but after a moment of inspection, Sam was certain that it wasn't made from Tanner himself -- rather an effigy constructed from sports equipment and large amounts of sticky tape. Irony. There it was. Thick, unyielding irony. Hundreds of thousands of kids all over the world were using this technique to sneak out of home for one reason or another -- but none as sinister as this. Never mind that he enjoys both hard rock and little adhesive decals; Sam reserved no judgment for the criminally insane.

It was not _after_ Sam had hunted around Tanner's dark bedroom to find the desk-lamp that he heard the voices. It wasn't even during. Before Sam had even had the chance to assemble a close-enough mental picture of the room that surrounded him, he heard a little shuddering shriek from underneath the floorboards. That shriek was muffled almost as soon as it had escaped, replaced by barely audible whimpering which was clearly being held back with a fair amount of restraint.

Sam dropped to the carpet and placed his ear against the floor, moving around until he found the spot where the sounds were clearest.

"Judith, please… please just -- quiet… it'll -- alright, c'mere..."

Sam pushed himself up like a sprinter to the starter's gun and raced down the hall, opening every single one of the surprisingly abundant doors for such a tiny flat. Bathroom, no. Parent's bedroom, no. Hall closet, laundry, garage, no, no, no. Then – _tug_. A peeling, white door with a key half-fitted in the outside lock refused to open – and that was always the giveaway. It was a bigger giveaway than if Tanner had painted a sign that read 'Evil Lair' in art class and hung it as a plaque. Sam pushed the old key the rest of the way into the lock and turned it. The tumblers tumbled, and Sam wrenched the door open. Then, inky darkness. Stairs leading downwards. There.

Sam ran his hand over the inside wall of the stairwell to the cellar in search of a light switch, disturbing a few nesting spiders as he did so. He flinched back only for a split second as they scurried over his hand, then found the switch and flicked it. A bare bulb encrusted with fly spots lit up dutifully from its place on the end of what was barely a thin piece of cord suspended from the inside of the sagging roof.

There was a thin gasp and then more shuddering breaths as the stairwell was illuminated, pitch growing higher and more desperate as Sam took the first few rotten wood steps down to the cellar.

"It's okay, it's okay!" Sam called out ahead of him as he took the rest of the stairs down in a fast trot. "I'm here to help you!"

The shudders stopped, now replaced by a coarse irony which Sam only realized when he heard his little lisp carry down the stairwell. If only he could still muster up his booming baritone, he would surely be able to console them in a much more convincing manner. He jumped down the last step.

A man and a woman huddled together in the middle of the room - not the edge. These people had been cornered before. They knew that while pressing yourself into a nook may psychologically feel safer, it also eliminated all possibility of escape. Mr. & Mrs. Tanner's Parents were professionals at being held captive.

They now looked up at Sam; battered, wide-eyed, desperate… and there was something else in the mix too; disbelief. _'YOU'VE come to save us?'_ was what they were thinking. Sam was sure of it. The terrifying, life-or-death atmosphere now had a slight hint of awkwardness to it.

"It's okay," He assured them again, with only a slight biting inflection due to their skepticism. "I know I don't look much like a rescue party, but this is the best you're gonna get, so come with me."

The parents didn't move, they just kept looking at him with that cold judgment. It was like they were sizing him up. For a second, the husband appeared to be just about to take a step forward, but the woman – Judith, from what he'd heard through the floorboards – darted at her husband's arm with a shaky, clammy hand; gripping him tight and holding him back, but never once taking her scared, bug-like eyes off Sam.

"No." She said, breath just as shaky as the rest of her. Her voice cracked with fear just a bit at the end. "You're lying. He's lying, Tom!"

Sam paused, reviewing everything he'd said to these two in the few seconds they'd had to know each other. None of it had really been a personal statement.

"Uh… lying about what?" Sam asked, genuinely taken aback.

"You're him, aren't you?" The husband – Tom, apparently – appeared to have come around to Judith's way of thinking. "You're T-T... Tann..."

"Tanner?" Sam asked in surprise. "You think I'm..?"

The awkward-flavored fear deepened in the cellar as all three of them were silent for a moment, each willing the other to speak, to ultimately solve the situation. The 'Tanner's continued to stare, unmoving, skeptical and frightened. Sam was beginning to feel less like the valiant hero and more like the freak on display.

Judith – who certainly seemed to wear the pants in this marriage... or at least in the hostage situations – took a step backwards, although Sam wasn't conscious he'd stepped forward. She pulled Tom with her.

"Look." Sam tried again, drawing on the extra ten years of experience in reasoning that his little body didn't have, but his mind did. "By the looks of things, Tanner's got you right where he wants you. Indoors, four walls, locked door. I'm trying to get you _out_ of here – this, by comparison, is much safer. There's nothing Tanner could gain by getting you out of here."

He appeared to be winning them over. Judith was sending looks at Tom which Sam was certain were somehow orders.

"I'm just trying to help you. Please." Sam said, finding his large eyes coming in useful once again. "Either you trust me, and we get out of here, or he's gonna come back and you'll have missed your chance."

Both of Tanners parents began to slowly sidle towards Sam and the exit, eyes never leaving him. They jumped at every movement Sam made, like scared alley cats, so he resolved to stay still until they'd reached the stairs. Clutching the splintery bannister with sweaty palms, they scurried up the steps, continuing to watch behind them where Sam stood harmlessly with arms folded, smiling for good measure. This didn't seem to reassure the two of them much. Sam couldn't blame them for being paranoid.

When they reached the top, Sam decided it was safe to move. He walked to the stairs, making sure his movement looked as little like a pursuit as possible.

His foot had barely touched the second stair from the bottom when Tanner's parents reached the top. The sliver of blue moonlight from the upper level of the house was quickly snuffed out as Judith scurried around to the other side of the door and pushed it shut.

"Hey!" Sam cried out, taking the stairs two at a time in a run. All intentions of 'slow and steady' were gone.

Just before Sam reached the top of the stairs, he heard the key turn in the lock. Momentum continued, and he slammed into the door, eliciting a startled little cry from Judith on the other side.

"What are you doing!?" Sam called out. He saw their shadows on the floor moving back slightly. "I'm not your son! I'm here to help you!"

"Honey, this is a little--" Tom, voice lowered but still audible, said to his wife.

"No. Tom." Just by her tone of voice, Sam could almost see Judith turn twitchily to Tom, eyes huge and adamant. "It's him."

"How do you know?" Tom even more quietly, and Sam pressed his ear against the door to hear better. The wood was damp and rotten. "He said his name was Sam somethi--"

"Do you think that matters?" Judith's voice managed to be quietly whispered and yet still piercingly shrill. "How would some kid know we were down there? Why would he come to help us? It's obvious, Tom. It's him. But if we keep him down there, we're safe."

"No, no you're not!" Sam called out desperately. "I can't help you from down here! If he comes back..."

"Tom, no." Judith insisted quietly.

"Let me take you somewhere safe. Please!"

For a moment, the house was quiet except for Judith's still-shaky breathing. Then the shadows of Tanner's parents disappeared from beneath the door, footsteps retreating to elsewhere in the house.

"Damnit!" Sam yelled in frustration, slamming him palm against the door and sinking down onto the top step. He waited for a few moments, listening in case they came back, but they appeared to have left him completely alone.

Sam sighed and lay his head against the door. This complicated things.

---

The underpass was just as seedy-looking as that bar, Dean observed as he approached it. It ran underneath what was probably the least busy road in the whole entire town, so Dean could only draw the conclusion that it was constructed not to provide pedestrians with a safe passage from here to there during peak traffic times, but rather for the sole purpose of giving teenagers a place to flock for less-than legal activities.

There wasn't exactly a 'flock' gathered there now – maybe five or six kids. They all looked about Tanner's age – and were more than likely Tanner's friends. None of them looked like Tanner, mind you, but that didn't count for much.

The kid closest to the entrance saw him first. He had shortish, lank black hair which looked like it hadn't been washed since he'd entered this awkward phase. The same thing could be said for the rest of this greasy kid.

"Who're yuh?" He said, voice seeming to be affected by a severe case of Idiotism. He should get that checked out.

Not to say he was intimidated by a few spotty teenage glue-sniffers, but Dean realized he had gone in there with absolutely no plan.

"'m Dante." Thinking on his feet, Dean imitated the kid's voice and stance, throwing in an unnecessary sniff to appear as douchey as possible, proving to the kids that he was really, really cool. Dean tried very hard not to hate himself.

The kids loosened up a little, sensing that they were in a presence far greater than their own. A few gazed at him with admiration.

"Whudyuh want?" The greasy kid asked, adding a tentative little sniff of his own. Was that some sort of show of respect? Good God, teenagers were impressionable. Especially teenagers who drew halftone stars on their wrists and thought it meant they had a tattoo. This was possibly the most degrading company Dean had ever been in.

"'ve got sum'n for yer boy Tanner." Dean, using his best '_I sell drugs to kids and that makes me way cool_' voice, panned his eyes over the group. He left the 'if you know what I mean' unsaid and hanging in the air between them. "Where can I find 'im?"

"Yuh can leave it 'ere." Another boy with black hair coaxed – who, judging by his nearly invisible eyebrows, used to be either blonde or ginger.

Dean pushed his lips out, moved his shoulders awkwardly, and basically did anything he could think of to make himself look as stupid as possible. The group gazed at him in utter awe and respect. Dean swore a couple had tears in their eyes. "Sorry, bruh. This needs tuh go straight tuh Tanner. Yuh know where 'e is?"

"Nah." The greasy kid said. "He comin' here later. He's prob'ly just somewhere chillaxing."

_'Chillaxing?'_ Dean thought in amusement, but made sure it didn't register on his face. _'I have _got_ to tell Sam that!'_

"Ah, well." Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and strolling backwards, flipped his head in a way he understood to mean pretty much anything. "Later."

Turning his back on the pack of idiots, he felt their eyes on him as they silently watched him leave. One of the kids, clearly struggling against a wave of emotion, called a teary, meaningful "Later!" at his retreating form. It bore a very close tonal resemblance to a typical, last-minute 'I love you!'. Dean thought that was probably what it meant, after all.

Fighting the overwhelming urge to go back to the motel and scrub the douche-bag off his skin, Dean walked away from the underpass and the five little subgenres who now regarded him as their God.


	13. Red Herring

The most frustrating part was that Sam knew the only reason he'd been unable to escape from the cellar was that his thirteen-year-old body was too small and not nearly strong enough to break the door down. If he was still his adult self, it would have been a two-minute job to break through this door with its rusty hinges and its splintered wood.

He still had all the regular instincts and impulses of his adult mind; someone locks you in the cellar? No problem, kick in the door. That'll solve it. But even knowing the exact place to kick, the exact force to apply and the exact direction from which to apply it, his leg muscles hadn't developed enough yet to get the door to even budge. Breathing heavily, he dropped onto the top step again, little hands clutching the railing. Knowing wasn't everything.

Except for when it _was_, Sam thought suddenly. Eyes traveling over the contents of the small cellar, they rested on a pile of yellowing newspapers in the corner. That was all he needed. He bounded down the stairs. Dean probably would have kicked at the door until his leg was as splintered as the banister, but Sam could bust himself out using nothing but a piece of paper. He considered this fact with a fair amount of pride. Suddenly, his short stature and minimal upper body strength didn't bother him quite so much.

He took the top sheet of newspaper and raced back up the stairs. Checking once more for the shadows on the floor to make sure Tanner's parents weren't outside, Sam unfolded the piece of newspaper and slid it under the door so that half was sticking out into the hallway. Rising, he stuck his little finger into the large, old-fashioned keyhole and prodded gently at the key until it worked its way out of the lock and dropped onto the sheet of newspaper waiting below. Feeling triumphant, Sam pulled the newspaper back under the door and the key came with it.

He unlocked the door as quietly as possible, and slipped out. Not to say for one second that, just because he was physically smaller, he couldn't take on two battered, middle-aged parents in a round of fisticuffs if the need arose. All the same, he would much rather just climb back out of the window quietly and let that be that. He'd had more than enough confrontation tonight and – as he was mortified to realize - he was beginning to feel sleepy. It must be true that children needed more sleep than adults. Sam had always thought it was just something parents told their kids to make them go to bed.

Sam navigated his way quietly down the hall, using only the light from the kitchen window at the end, trying to remember the way back to Tanner's bedroom and the window with the broken latch. The cool blue moonlight was refreshing compared to the bare, yellow light bulb in the cellar. Tanner's parents had either gone to bed or flown the coop, as he could hear no movement at all from inside the house. For that, he was immensely relieved.

And that relief lasted, ooh, four or five seconds. Six, if you counted the moment of confusion Sam spent squinting at the body which lay at the end of the hallway, half lit up from one side. There was no blood, but Tom was clearly, indisputably stone cold dead. Eyebrows knotted together, Sam went to him wordlessly and knelt down. His neck was broken. A few feet away, near the kitchen table, Judith lay in a similar state. There was a trickle of blood on her forehead, probably from hitting the table edge on the way down.

Sam put a curled fist to his mouth, giving himself a moment to calm his nerves and collect his thoughts. Tom and Judith – despite having locked him in their cellar – were good people. At least it had been quick; Sam hadn't heard a scuffle.

There was no doubt as to who had done it either, and Sam found he needed another moment to clarify this new thought; Tanner had actually done this to his _own parents_? When he met him at school, and even in the days up until he showed him his 'trick', he'd seemed so normal. Apart from the killer baritone, of course. Could the development really be happening this fast, or was he just really, really good at refraining from evil cackling in public? It was hard to believe the fun, cheerful kid he'd been talking to at school only days earlier had been harboring inside himself the ability to kill his parents. And for no real reason at all. Sam could only speculate, but he thought that Tanner probably felt too many people were onto him.

Sam glanced up at the moon, needing to see something pure and distant to center himself... and that's when he saw that the window was open. It was one of those kinds of windows that you slide the bottom half up to open it, and the gap wasn't particularly wide. Just enough for a boy of, say, fourteen or fifteen to escape out of.

Sam stood and went to the window. It opened onto their back lawn, although whether it was theirs, their neighbors or public property was unclear. There were no fences, trees, shrubs or dividers to mark it as anyone's personal yard. The same could be said for their neighbors. All that was decorating either lawn was a bare washing line. The two houses looked like displaced caravans at a carnival when the rest had moved on. The grass was very short but not particularly neatly kept. Here and there, the ground was reduced simply to patches of dry earth.

That's what made it so easy to see the footprints.

Okay, they weren't exactly _footprint_ footprints. Certainly not the television-brand 'see the tread of your Nikes' footprints. Really, there were just a few places here and there that a little dirt had been kicked up. But they made a logical path towards the neighbors house, and on the facing wall, another window was open. While not concrete, that was a lead that Sam could follow.

Sam felt slightly guilty leaving the bodies of Tanner's parents just lying there, but there wasn't much he could do for them now. He climbed out the open window, all the while unable to remove the one thought from his head, going around and around on repeat; _he killed them, he killed his own parents._

Being outside was even better after being locked downstairs. The breeze was cool and such a welcome alternative after the still, stale air of the cellar. He crossed the flat void of a moonlit yard to the neighbor's house, which was more like a deserted fairground than anything. Reaching the open window, he glanced around with that practiced nonchalance and, once he was confident that he wasn't being watched, hefted himself up to the windowsill and pulled himself inside.

The neighbor's house was much more neatly kept than Tanner's. He guessed almost immediately from looking at the dried flowers, the watercolor paintings of sparrows and the cross-stitched sign which read 'Bless This House' that an old lady lived here. Possibly alone. Sam quickened his pace.

The room he'd landed in seemed to be the living room, and the next one was probably the dining room, if the large-ish table was anything to go by. The one after that, Sam could see, was the kitchen, but sounds of breathing and low voices stopped him before he entered. Nimbly, he stepped out of the doorway's view and pressed himself against the wall. There was definitely someone in there... possibly more than just one. Sam slowly reached around to the back of his jeans and wrapped his fingers around the gun that was still safely tucked in there. He pulled it out and looked at it for a moment; if that was Tanner in the next room, was he really going to shoot him? Remembering the bodies of Tom and Judith, dead for no reason at all, Sam realized he knew the answer to the question before he'd even asked it. Of course he was going to shoot him. He was going to shoot him right in the heart and he was going to kill him. Now there were no excuses. Tanner had lost the right to be called a child the moment he snapped his father's neck.

Gun held skillfully at the ready in his little hands, Sam swung around the corner; silent but instantly commanding attention.

"Woah!"

As Sam had estimated, there were two people in the kitchen. One was a youngish guy, lanky and quite tall, masked by a balaclava and brandishing a knife which was now not so much being brandished as it was being held in one of the two hands he'd flung into the air upon seeing the gun. He was the one who'd uttered the cry. The other was a woman of about seventy, face frightened but pretty despite her age, who was tightly clutching a crucifix pendant at her neck and praying under her breath. Behind her on the counter top, a jewelery box lay open.

Sam was willing to bet that the attacker was Tanner in his new skin. Or maybe his disguise was the woman, but only if he wanted to take the really, really convoluted route. Unlikely, Sam surmised.

"Woah, woah." Tanner repeated. "Take it easy, kid. Put daddy's gun down."

"Drop your knife." Sam ordered flatly. The blade clattered to the ground.

Sam took a moment to look at him. He was too tall to be Tanner – in a physical sense, of course. That didn't mean the tyke hadn't slipped his skin and returned for some getaway cash. Sam was about to tell him to take off his balaclava, but realized there wasn't much point.

"I know that's you in there, Tanner. I'm..." Sam considered his odds "ninety-nine percent certain."

"Tanner?" The guy asked. Sam ignored it. That could easily be an act. It wasn't like he was gonna admit it. Nice try.

"What I don't understand is," Sam kept the gun trained on Tanner's form. "How you could go so quickly from being such a genuine, nice kid to someone who could kill his parents."

The old lady stiffened.

"My... what?" Tanner asked. "My parents? Has something happened to my parents?"

"I saw what you did to them." Sam stated bluntly. "Necks snapped like it was nothing. For-"

Sam was cut off by a low whine. For a second he thought it was a police siren, but after a moment he realized it was coming from the balaclavaed Tanner. He began to lower his hands, and Sam gripped the gun a little more tightly but relaxed when he realized the boy's whole body was lowering. Head in hands, he dropped to his knees, all the while letting out a tearful, forlorn moan.

"Oh my lord..." He twanged, sounding just about as Southern as can be. He took off his balaclava and held it over his heart. Sam could now see that he was a guy of about twenty, with a scruffy cap of short, darkish hair and the beginnings of a messy goatee. He dropped his head and continued sniffling."Mama... oh, why'd I say those things to you?"

"Erm..." Sam's certainty wavered, and he lowered the gun a fraction of an inch. "Tanner? Are you-"

"Pop!" He continued, casting tear-filled eyes up at the ceiling, lower lip trembling. "Pop, why'd we fight? You know I love you! I always will, no matter what we say to each other. Why now, Pop? Why now?"

"Tan... erm, Tanner?" Sam tried again to catch his attention as he slumped his shoulders, fingers brushing the ground, and proceeded to weep limply.

Sam let out a loose, defeated sigh, his own shoulders slumping similarly. "You're not Tanner, are you?"

The intruder's long sobs were answer enough, and Sam lowered his gun all the way. Tanner may be an amazing impressionist, but he doubted he was this good of an actor. He chanced a glance at the old lady and the jewelry he'd inadvertently saved. She was still clutching her cross, but the wide eyes now staring at him looked a little more puzzled than frightened. Sam forced an awkward grin, and began to casually work his way towards the exit.

"I, erm... I don't think he'll be giving you any more trouble."

Sam huffed as he slipped out the door and trotted down the path. Why were things like this always happening to him?


End file.
